Heather's Beginning
by Koriat Cyredanthem
Summary: Evacuating civilians is one of the last jobs the Marines attend to after getting orders to abandon the planet. It's often the Spartans who are last on the surface, so they often find themselves rescuing a last group even as the planet starts burning. John thinks this group will be the same as all the others, but he's dead wrong.


The blow came from behind, knocking the Spartan forward. His chin slammed into the front of his helmet, as did his brow, and he tasted blood in his mouth. The gash on his forehead bled heavily.

His vision swam with blood as he stumbled to regain his balance, maneuvering for space and time. The Brute that had managed to strike him already stared in death, Kelly in the process of stomping its head to a pulp, when he turned around. It was the last of a three-Brute pack leading a handful of Sangheili and Jackals that had attacked the trio.

"I think it's dead," Linda croaked, her voice hoarse. They all wished for a respite, to take their helmets off and drink.

"Now it is," Kelly replied coolly, shaking blood and gore from her boot. She looked at the Chief, her voice worried. "You green, sir?" she asked over a private comm line.

"I'll be fine," John replied, blinking rapidly to wash the blood out of his eyes.

"Watch yourself," Kelly admonished, taking point again.

Linda and John followed their sister, alert for more ambushes. They were some of the last soldiers still on the planet. Most had already evacuated to the ships, giving up the planet, and the Covenant had started their glassing.

The Spartan trio had been deployed to cover the retreat. When the SOS call from a school made it over the radio, the Spartans had received new orders. Their new mission: rescue anyone still alive in the school.

Humanity's losses meant that children had highest evacuation priority. Wartime morals meant leaving behind adults to be glassed alive if it meant rescuing more children; they were lighter, so Pelicans could take more of them per trip, and humanity needed them to assure its future. The only exceptions: military personnel and important political figures, to keep the UEG running smoothly. In practice, John knew, it was often the wealthy that survived, because they could pay to flee to the Inner Colonies, and likely already had.

The Spartans jogged quickly through the city. They had a couple of hours before the Covenant started glassing the area, which would put them in danger, but John didn't want a ship spotting them and glassing the area ahead of schedule to take out three Demons.

The buildings soared above them, seventy or more stories high, relatively pristine. The fighting hadn't penetrated far into this particular city before the order came down to retreat. As a result, the Spartans had to jog between jammed traffic, clearing a path by virtue of their bulk.

Within fifteen minutes, they came to the part of the city that hadn't been evacuated – which meant it likely wouldn't happen before every soul here decorated the pavement as piles of slag. There were short-lived cries of relief from the civilians in the street, some armed, most not. Kelly and Linda did not need an order to keep moving, but John gave it anyway, over his loudspeakers so the civilians knew the trio hadn't come for them.

A young woman started sobbing to his right; he caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye as he jogged past, jumping over a line of bumper-to-bumper cars abandoned by their owners. She clung to a slightly older man, burying her face in his shoulder; her hair was a rich blonde streaked with golden highlights. Her hourglass figure bespoke beauty, and she wore clean blue pants with pockets on the rear covered in glittering sequins.

The Spartans moved quickly. They had been in situations where civilians, fueled by terror and rage, had tried to attack rescue parties, hoping for evacuation. John did not want to give a necessary order that might just incite a mob.

"Please take me with you!" a man, likely in his late twenties, pleaded, jumping into Kelly's path. She barely managed to halt herself in front of him; if she had hit him, he would have been severely injured.

John growled to himself and, turning on his loudspeakers, barked, "Move, civilian!" It usually worked.

However, while the man paled in fear, he stood firmly in Kelly's way. She could easily dispatch him, or move around, but she stepped back to let John handle the situation. He stepped up, invading the man's personal space consciously, and tried to glare through the visor at the man.

It was hard, though, knowing that these men and women – a group started forming, much to John's irritation – acted out of fear, not hatred or malicious intent.

"Civilian," John continued, neutralizing his tone, "our orders do not include your evacuation."

Before he could direct them to the nearest operational evac center – if there was one still – an older woman joined the young man, screeching shrilly. "You have to evacuate us! We're civilians! We deserve evac more than you robots!"

"If you do not move," John replied calmly, "you will be in direct violation of Civilian Wartime Protocol Article A18-III. As such, we are authorized to use any force we deem necessary to protect ourselves and continue with the mission. The nearest evacuation center is thirty blocks to the east." He pointed, since he didn't know if civilians made a study of the cardinal directions. "They may be able to take more survivors. Take only yourselves."

"You have to protect us!" another voice in the rapidly-growing crowd demanded. Other anonymous voices agreed heartily.

"There are still aliens out there!"

John, despite his orders, disliked the idea of injuring or killing civilians; he hesitated for a moment.

Kelly, however, had no such quandaries and dropped a flash-bang at her feet, barking "Grenade!" over her loudspeakers as she did so.

The entire crowd fled, shrieking, disappearing almost as quickly as they had appeared. John dove for cover behind a car, as did Linda. Kelly, however, calmly bent down and picked up the grenade – she hadn't pulled the pin.

"Problem solved," Kelly said, chuckling evilly over the radio. Fred would have smacked her over the head, had he been there.

"Let's move before they come back," Linda suggested, standing and dusting herself off.

John took point this time, and they moved faster. This time, no one threw themselves at the Spartans, for which John was grateful. He'd wasted enough time trying to reason with the first crowd.

They arrived at the school to find it locked and barred, all lights off. Linda climbed onto an adjacent roof and found cover, unlimbering her sniper rifle to guard her siblings' exit route.

John kicked in the main pair of doors. They had been designed to withstand assault, but not a Spartan in full MJOLNIR. He clattered into a hallway, kicking the door panels to the side, and activated his headlights to pierce the gloom.

Kelly followed him in, ducking to his right and crouching.

"Gym?" Kelly asked, nodding to the map on the wall.

It was a reasonable suggestion, so John nodded and, after glancing at the map, led the way into the building.

The building had been designed to hold well over a thousand children; it was three floors and nearly a full square block. They found the gym quickly, since it was on the first floor near the entrance. These doors, too, were barricaded; John tried the access panel to no success.

"There's something inside," Kelly murmured over the radio. John could just barely make out the sounds of quiet crying.

He slung his rifle and ordered Kelly to do the same. They gripped the edges of the doors and pulled, the panels screeching hideously in protest as the Spartans slowly forced them open.

The gym was dark, but the light from the two Spartan's headlights swept over a huddled mass of children, a few adults scattered through the crowd, silent in fear. John realized they couldn't see him or his sister and looked for the light switch.

Kelly found it on her side of the door first, however, and flipped all of the switches to ON. The lights flickered and then, with a rush, illuminated the Spartans and children inside.

The group was frozen, though John could make out a few of the older children and adults sighing or even sobbing quietly in relief. Luckily, school had been out when the attacks came, so only a few dozen children – likely participating in after-school activities – and a handful of teachers were inside. They could probably evac the entire group.

Kelly stepped forward and John let her take over; she was much more adept at comforting scared civilians, especially children, than he.

"It's alright," she said into the silence, turning her headlights off. "We're here to rescue you."

That released the dam; several of the youngest children, likely five or six years old, started weeping, while others chattered in relief. Before they could overwhelm the pair, Kelly yelled into the rising noise, "Quiet down." She managed to sound both caring and authoritative, and those speaking silenced.

"I need you all to listen very carefully, and do exactly what we say," she continued. "Divide into groups. Teachers, divide the children evenly – some younger, some older. We may have to make a run for it, in which case, the older ones will need to carry the younger. Is anyone injured?"

A stern-looking woman shook her head, coming to the front. "I'm Principal Meath," she said, her voice barely shaking. Her strong example helped other teachers conquer their fear; they began dividing up the children into groups.

"How is it out there?" the principal asked, her voice low. Kelly lowered hers as well.

"Most everyone's gone," she answered. "We received your distress call and came to get you out. Those that remain…" She didn't have to finish; Mrs. Meath bowed her head in understanding.

"Will there be room…?" Obviously, the woman warred with herself; she wanted the children to get to safety, but she doubtlessly craved evacuation as well.

"We will take everyone we can," Kelly replied. "This late in the battle, you'll likely be placed on a military ship – which means you'll be required to keep the children quiet and as out of the way as possible." The woman bit her lip and nodded seriously. "Our evac site is ten blocks away. We need to move quickly."

Mrs. Meath nodded and drew herself up, facing the children again. Her voice was rock steady when she spoke to the large gathering. "Children," she began, "these soldiers are here to take us to a safe place. Stay together, stay quiet, and move quickly. Stick with your buddy at all times."

Kelly touched her shoulder and the woman moved into the groups, taking charge of three six-year-olds and a pair of teenagers. The Spartan addressed the group. "We will be taking you through areas that should be safe, but we may encounter enemies. If you see anything out of the ordinary, tell one of us immediately. My name is Kelly; that's John." John tilted his head in acknowledgement. "Linda will meet us outside. If we do encounter Covenant, you will run for cover. Follow your teachers and stick together. If you get separated from the group, our destination is Central Park – make your way there as quickly as you can." She looked over the group. "There are others outside, who will try to tag along. Do not slow down for them, even if they are your friends. Getting yourselves off this planet is your top priority. We will not stop for stragglers." It was harsh, but so was their world; the children nodded seriously, those who could understand.

John contacted Linda and let her know the plan; she agreed to provide cover from the rooftops and was making her way to a better position when Kelly finished her speech.

"Everyone follow John. I'll be in the back." John nodded to Kelly and headed out, unlimbering his rifle. The children and teachers followed, some staring up at Kelly, wonder winning through the fear for a moment as they gaped at the Spartan female.

John led the way out of the building and turned towards the park, calling the few still-flying Pelicans and asking for a ride out, citing his civilian passengers. Almost immediately, he received confirmation: someone had been expecting his call.

The children followed gamely, though Kelly had to tell John to slow down at the five-block mark because some of the out-of-shape kids were having trouble keeping up. They walked another two blocks before one of the youngest children, carried piggy-back by a strong teenager, wailed in fear, alerting both Spartans to the approaching Covenant as they streamed out of an alleyway and headed straight for the children.

John's translation software in his helmet made short work of the group leader's roar. The Elite in red armor snarled, fangs opening wide, as he ordered his troops to attack the "human filth."

Kelly and John instantly sprang into action even as the teachers and older children grabbed the youngest kids and ran in the opposite direction, fear putting speed in their feet. Linda, from the rooftop, dropped the red Elite with a bullet through the helmet; John fired upon a second Elite while Kelly started in on the Grunts, whose Needlers would pose more danger to the children than the Jackal's plasma pistols.

_~~HALO~~_

Her heart hammered in her chest, almost audible despite the Covenant aliens roaring behind her as the giant green Spartan in the lead moved to interpose himself between the enemy and the group. Heather turned and ran blindly, following the general rush of the crowd. She slammed into a car hood, her momentum throwing her torso forward so that, for a moment, she saw stars as her chin bounced off the metal hood.

"Run!" someone shrieked. Heather coughed in pain and slid around the hood of the car, limping – both of her thighs, where she had hit the side of the vehicle, were definitely bruised. Heather was the last of the group to get to the storefronts.

Someone had smashed in the glass door to the closest shop; Heather filed in, running to her assigned group with a cry of relief. The teacher, crouched in fear, recognized her and made a sob of relief, hugging her tightly.

"Are you alright?" Mrs. Kwimby asked, smoothing Heather's hair down. Outside, they could all hear the angry roars of Elites, the coughing rattle of the Spartan's rifles – and occasionally a thick _crack_. Heather recognized the sound of a large gun – probably a sniper rifle – from the video feeds of the war she'd seen on the news.

"I'm fine," Heather answered, kneeling gingerly behind an overturned table with the rest of her group.

"Will they be okay?" a young boy, Rob, asked quietly, tugging at Mrs. Kwimby's skirt.

"They will be," Mrs. Kwimby assured him. "They're soldiers. They'll come get us any moment."

Heather peeked over the top of the table, despite Mrs. Kwimby's hissed order not to, and looked across the street through the store's large antique glass front. The battle was nearly over; one of the green Spartans was rolling onto his back, a Jackal – or its body – on top of him or her; the other one was stomping as though trying to kill cockroaches on the sidewalk. The bodies of Grunts under his or her boots were almost unrecognizable.

_~~HALO~~_

John grunted as the Elite's plasma rifle spat a retort even as his bullets punched through the alien's midsection, tearing into its spine. The plasma cascaded over his armor, melting portions and heating up the interior for an instant before the cooling system kicked in, making him feel like he'd been rolled out of a skillet into a freezing-cold lake. He shivered even as he turned to the Jackals.

The closest one was too far to grab, and he couldn't punch through its shield before it took another shot – and his armor wouldn't protect him from another hit like that. It had been suffering from the past days of non-stop battle, its shields unable to recover from the abuse, and with the slightly-melted exterior, the next plasma bolt would sink straight through. He might survive, but he didn't want to experiment.

Instead of shooting, then, he jinxed right, forcing the vulture-like alien to turn, and then tackled it, pushing its weapon away from his body and dropping his own rifle. He curled his hand into a fist and punched through the creature's head; its neck and skull both snapped under the blow.

He rolled the body so that its shield was between him and the next opponent, which saved his life; the second Jackal fired and the shield disintegrated, but John had time to bring up his rifle and fire into the alien's knee. It warbled in pain and dropped its shield arm slightly, revealing its head; Linda put a bullet through its brain before John could.

Kelly had finished with the Grunts by then, wiping the last one's blood from her boots onto the grass in a small garden she'd trampled into the dirt. She offered John a hand and levered him onto his feet, touching his armor; it gave under her glove slightly though it was already hardening.

"You can't take another hit," she said, concern in her voice.

"I know," John replied, slapping a fresh magazine into his rifle. "Let's get out of here so I don't have to. Linda?"

"All clear. The children are hiding in the antique store across the street. I've been keeping an eye on them."

John nodded, knowing she could see him, and headed across the street, taking a moment to grab a jacket from the ground where someone had tossed it and wiping his gloves clean of the Jackal's blood. He tossed it to Kelly, who wiped down her boot, and then threw it away.

_~~HALO~~_

Heather winced as the taller of the Spartans used her discarded jacket – she'd let go of it when they'd run – to wipe bright blue and purple blood off of his – or her – hands. The Spartan handed it to the other green soldier, who paused to lean on a car hood and do the same cleaning service on his or her boots.

"It's safe," the second one called into the store. Heather recognized her voice – it was Kelly, the Spartan who had taken charge in the gym. She crept out of the store, following Mrs. Kwimby and rubbing her arms, trying to work warmth back into her fingers.

_~~HALO~~_

"It's safe," Kelly called into the storefronts, not knowing where exactly the children had hidden. The teachers led them out slowly, fear more evident in their eyes. Both Spartans had seen it before; it was one thing to see Covenant in the distance, or watch battles on 3D holoscreens, but seeing the aliens up close and listening to a battle right across the street was an entirely different matter. Some of the fear, though, was for the Spartans – and, in the back of his mind, it bothered John.

One of the girls was shivering and trying to warm her hands; she rubbed them briskly on her arms and then stuck her fingers into her armpits. John looked around quickly. They were on a street seemingly devoted to tourism and knick-knacks. He spotted a souvenir store across the street and motioned for Kelly to organize the troops – kids – while he went for some supplies.

He waded back through the carcasses, careful to kick each one and ensure it was truly dead. John walked straight through the glass door – what was it with this street and glass? – and into the shop. He found the sweatshirts quickly, and wiped his gloves down more thoroughly on one before grabbing a fistful – probably half a dozen sweatshirts – and heading back to the group.

Everyone had a jacket or sweater on except for the one girl. She might have lost it in their flight – he didn't remember anyone leaving the gym without a jacket. The children silently parted as he walked over to her, extending his hand with the sweatshirts in it like a peace offering.

_~~HALO~~_

_He's coming right at me,_ Heather thought to herself, frozen. The Spartan was _huge_ up close, and he stank of gunpowder, alien blood, sweat, and other scents – including something tangy, like metal. Probably his armor.

The kids around her seemed to vanish as she looked up into the golden visor. It was so far away.

"Take one." The voice was gruff, not unkind – but certainly not _gentle_. It was, however, decidedly male. Heather wondered, fleetingly, what face lay under the helmet – or if there was one at all. Were Spartans human, or robots? Her friends liked to think they were robots. Heather wasn't so sure, especially with the way he spoke to her. It was as if he was trying not to scare her. She didn't want to see what he did when he _wanted_ to scare folks.

Heather looked at his hand, only now realizing that he was holding something out to her. His forearm was covered in green armor, splashed – liberally – with blue and purple splotches that could have been paint except that they were still wet, tokens of the recent battle.

His hand was holding half a dozen sweatshirts, grey in color. She reached forward hesitantly, taking the uppermost one.

"Thanks," she said, ducking the sweatshirt over her head and wiggling into it. It was slightly big, clearly made for a full-grown adult – she was still sixteen and had a little growing yet to do, unlike almost every other girl in her class.

When her head popped through the sweatshirt's opening, the Spartan was already gone, handing the sweatshirts to anyone who looked like they could use one. Heather snuggled into hers, tucking her hands firmly in the sweatshirt's pockets.

_~~HALO~~_

"Let's move," John said roughly, moving back into the street. The cars made their progress slow but, if they were ambushed, would provide better cover than the cleared sidewalks.

Despite the civilian children whimpering softly, occasionally hushed by an older student or teacher, they made good time to the evac zone.

John clicked on his radio and looked up, trying to spot their ride. "This is Master Chief Sierra-117, requesting evac for seventy-eight minors and thirteen adults, civlians."

"Roger that, Chief," a pilot answered almost immediately. Distantly, John could make out a wing of five Pelicans roaring towards the group. "On our way. Keep your head down."

The Spartan grunted an affirmative and set to balancing the groups by weight. Teenagers would be removed first, then the younger children, and finally the adults.

"New orders, sir?" Linda asked, still posted on the roof.

"Not yet," he answered, allowing a faint trace of weariness to color his reply. It had been nearly seventy hours since his last snatched nap, and almost fourteen since their last respite long enough to risk removing their helmets and eating and drinking. He wasn't in the danger zone – yet. But they were all getting close, too close for the Chief's comfort.

"Here they come," Kelly said, over her loudspeakers. The five Pelicans roared into a landing; the children covered their eyes and turned their backs on the dust and debris the small ships kicked up.

All five Pelicans lowered their hatches. They were empty; John and Kelly, with the help of the teachers, maneuvered the children into each holding bay and strapped them securely to the walls. As soon as a Pelican was filled, it shut its hatch and lifted off, eager to take its precious cargo to the protection of the human fleet waiting just beyond the reach of the Covenant warships, which were concentrating on glassing the planet.

"Sir, we're the last," a pilot told the Chief over the radio. "If you guys want to get out of here, you're going to have to come with us."

John looked at the city. There were civilians still out there, likely being torn apart by Covenant even now. Sensing the direction of his thoughts, Kelly put a hand on his shoulder.

"We've got to go, Chief," she said quietly.

John nodded, ordering Linda down from her perch. The last group into the Pelican consisted mainly of smaller children; their teachers strapped them into the Pelican's seats along the wall and told them to hold onto their harnesses. Then the teachers strapped themselves in. Last of all, the three Spartans jumped into the rear of the Pelican and the hatch started closing.

Kelly limbered her rifle and pulled a restraining tether from the ceiling, handing it to John. All of the Pelicans were equipped with these tethers, designed for Spartan use. If the Pelican needed to maneuver and a Spartan was thrown about in the cargo bay, he or she could easily crush anyone else in the same space – or even dent the interior.

Kelly turned, presenting her back to John; he clipped the tether into her armor and yanked on it for good measure. She wouldn't go anywhere once she activated her magnetic soles, which she did with a click.

Linda did the same for John, and John returned the favor. Only when all three Spartans were secured did the pilot lift off; the rush of the Pelican's engines made it almost impossible to communicate without radios. The children covered their ears.

John, held in place both by the tethers and his magnetic soles, relaxed, dropping almost immediately into a half-conscious state. He let his armor hang against the tether and closed his eyes, tucking his chin into his chest. His sisters were doing the same; they were all exhausted.

Despite their apparent apathy, though, the Spartans kept track of all that happened around them. Once the Pelican broke free of the atmosphere, it was silent in the bay for a moment, before the children started chattering, nervous and frightened.

"Ms. Dunlap, where are we going?" a particularly precocious eight-year-old girl asked, her green eyes widened in fear. The teacher in question tried to smile reassuringly, but she believed in never lying to her charges – they didn't understand the difference between a white lie and a bad one, yet.

"I don't know," she replied quietly. "Somewhere safer."

"What about Speckles?" another boy asked, crying quietly. He sat next to another teacher, who had wrapped an arm around the boy to comfort him though the harnesses made it difficult to move.

"Speckles will go over the Rainbow Bridge," the teacher replied, smoothing the boy's hair down. "Remember how we talked about that?"

The boy sniffled and nodded. "And he'll have all the lettuce and carrot tops and girl bunnies he could want."

"Exactly. Now, try to get some sleep – it's been a long day for everyone." The boy wiggled around in his harness and managed to arrange himself half-way into the teacher's lap.

"Spartan." Kelly swam back into consciousness first and turned her head to the teacher who had spoken, though John and Linda returned partially from their doze to pay attention in a detached state. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Kelly replied simply, dropping her head back to her chest.

It would take nearly an hour to get to the ships and the three Spartans planned to doze the entire way, the children in the cargo bay encouraged to do the same by their teachers. Pure exhaustion born of terror was sufficient to send some into sleep, but others wouldn't – or couldn't – shut their eyes for very long and clung to their neighbor.

Half-way through the trip, though, one of the children woke, screaming in fear. The three Spartans responded automatically, still trying to wake up fully even as they detached their tethers and dropped into a defensive formation, John unlimbering his battle rifle and Kelly and Linda dropped to one knee on either side of him.

That, of course, set off another round of screaming as children woke and found themselves looking at armed Spartans clearly in defensive mode. The teachers, too, were startled enough to cry out.

It was several tense seconds of crying and shrieking before the three Spartans managed to sort out the situation and re-holster their weapons. Kelly stood, crossing to the girl who had started the crying, and knelt in front of her.

Linda took charge of one of the teachers who was having trouble calming down, her face white as a sheet and her breathing too shallow to be healthy. John spotted another child curled into a ball and decided he would deal with the boy.

Kelly pulled her glove off, the ship's air cool on her skin. She gently smoothed the girl's hair down; the child stared at her faceplate with fear still etched into her face.

"It's okay," Kelly murmured quietly, using the same motions she'd observed the teachers doing to soothe the girl by patting her head repeatedly. The Spartan's hand was sweaty, but the girl didn't seem to mind; she leaned slightly into the petting. "You're safe here."

"I dreamed the big meanies hurt you," the girl whispered, eyes brightening with tears.

"When we were running through the streets?" Kelly guessed.

The girl nodded. "And you got hurt and you couldn't protect us and they f-f-f-found us and h-hurt us, too…" She sniffled, wringing her hands unconsciously.

"I'm fine," Kelly reminded her gently. "You're on your way to a ship that will take you to a new home, where there aren't any Covenant."

"But… What about you?" The girl's lips trembled.

"I have to stay and keep fighting so I can rescue people like you," Kelly answered.

"You'll get hurt!"

Kelly nodded seriously. "I will," she agreed. "But I have to do it."

"Why?" The question was more than a simple word, though; the child wanted to know why the "big meanies" wanted to hurt them, to glass human planets.

Kelly sighed slightly, shaking her head. "I don't know. I don't know why the Covenant want to hurt us," she clarified. "But I know why I have to keep going back to the fight. I'm a Spartan – we serve and protect people like you."

"But you can't if you're hurt."

Kelly, behind the protection of her faceplate, smiled slightly. The girl had a stubborn streak to match her own. "No, I can't," she agreed. "But you know what?"

"What?" the girl asked.

Kelly shifted so the girl could see Linda and John, comforting other children – and teachers. "If I get hurt, my brothers and sisters will protect me. And if they get hurt, I'll protect them."

"You'll protect each other?" the girl asked. "Always?"

"Always."

"Okay." The girl sniffed and then put on a brave smile. She lurched forward and hugged the Spartan's neck, her harness nearly checking the motion. "Don't get hurt, okay?" she whispered, apparently doing her best to squeeze the Spartan's armor into submission.

Kelly wouldn't make a promise she couldn't keep, even to a child. Instead, she gently hugged the girl back. "I'll try."

The child, seeming to understand that the Spartan couldn't promise more, nodded and sat back in her seat. Kelly cinched her harness tight and moved on to the next traumatized kid.

Soothing the children took up the rest of the flight as they asked, over and over, why the Covenant had tried to hurt them, why the Spartans couldn't come with them and protect them, and a thousand other innocent questions.

By the time the ship docked, the children were calm enough that the soldiers who streamed into the Pelican to unharness them got earfuls of the children's adventures.

The three Spartans waited for the chaos to settle before moving; the children ran around in excitement, blithely unaware of the ship's military nature as they dashed around the docking bay. To avoid stepping on someone accidentally, the Spartans stayed where they were until the teachers corralled their students once more.

Only then did the trio step down out of the Pelican. John thanked the pilots and the Pelicans closed their hatches. They'd be refueled by the ship's crew, and then sit here waiting for their next mission.

The ship's logistics officer stared at the three Spartans and dozens of children he'd now have to find room – and food, and shower time, and activities – for, as part of his job to keep the ship running smoothly.

The children, having run off their initial burst of energy, were now curious and pelting their teachers with a thousand new questions – mostly "what is that?" as Pelican engineers started swarming over the transports.

John marched up to the logistics officer and waited, politely, to be noticed. The man looked up from his clipboard, his expression harried but not, John noticed gratefully, unwelcoming.

"Chief," the man greeted, offering a hand. John shook it gently. "I've never worked with Spartans; what do you need?"

"A small garage," John replied, nodding to his sisters. "We'll sleep there, unless you have cryotubes available?"

The man shook his head. "Negative. We'd been about to jump when we were told to wait for the last group of survivors. Everyone's already in the freezer. We could thaw someone out if you really want to…"

John shook his head. He preferred cryosleep for long voyages, but he didn't want to displace a non-essential crewmember. "Your ship should be stocked with Spartan gear."

After a few equipment mix-ups that had forced the Spartans to spend weeks in their armor, lacking any way to get out of it without triggering the emergency releases that would destroy the armor, the UNSC logistics team had decided that stocking every ship with the tech to remove Spartan armor, and teaching the Spartans how to use it, was more efficient than trying to keep such accidents from happening again.

The logistics officer nodded. "In deep storage," he said apologetically. "It'll take us a few hours to dig it out for you."

John nodded, stifling his resignation. He'd been looking to immediately getting unarmored and showering, and then sleeping – for at least a week, if he had any say about it.

"Can you get your helmets off? We can feed you, at least."

John, surprised – usually logistics officers left it to the Spartans to find the cafeteria and feed themselves – nodded, unsealing his helmet and pulling it off.

The man's face evolved into astonishment and he stepped back quickly; John realized he hadn't cleaned his face from when the Brute had hit him over the head, and the dried blood, stiff on his face now that he thought about it, likely shocked the poor man.

Kelly snorted softly, unsealing her own helmet and pulling it off. She hadn't taken a hit to the face, so she wasn't covered in blood, but as she shook her head roughly, her short hair flung sweat around. Linda held up a hand to protect herself from her sister's antics and then removed her own helmet, smoothing her hair back with a gloved hand.

"You look like hell," the logistics officer gulped. He seemed to realize that what he'd said was less than tactful and almost stammered an apology, but John held up a hand to waylay it.

"We know," he replied, consciously lightening his voice.

"And you should get stitches." Over his initial shock, the officer peered critically at John's forehead. "Med bay's that way. I'll send someone to show you around the ship once you're done."

John nodded his thanks and resealed his helmet. The kids hadn't caught the sight of his face, but he didn't want to traumatize them further. However, once he turned around, he noticed that the bay was empty – the children had gone somewhere.

"Smooth move," Kelly chuckled over a private radio to her siblings once they were all resealed in their armor.

"I'll set you on cleaning duty while Linda and I get something to eat," John replied calmly. It was an empty threat – now that they were in the relative safety of a ship, John wouldn't press orders onto his siblings unless necessary. He headed for the med bay.

Kelly snorted as she and Linda followed. "I think you're delusional if you think you can keep me from food," she replied after a moment. "I'm hungry. How long's it been since we last ate?"

"About thirty hours," Linda replied quietly.

"Hungry?" Kelly asked her sister, a grin in her voice.

"Starving," the quiet sniper admitted. "I was about to eat my helmet in the Pelican."

John and Kelly chuckled, half in agreement. Linda, for all her slenderness, could pack away enough food to rival two of her Spartan siblings.

"Let's get John patched up and then find the grub," Kelly suggested, her voice suddenly weary. "Then I'm for sleeping until they get out our gear."

"Even if we need to retreat into a Pelican," John agreed. They stepped into the medical bay and found it packed full of the children they'd just rescued. All three Spartans paused, unsure if they would be seen to – but a pair of nurses quickly came over, led by a doctor in a crisp uniform.

"And here are the heroes of the hour," the doctor said, chuckling warmly. John tilted his head slightly, confused. "The children," the man explained, waving behind him, "have been telling us all about how you rescued them."

John simply nodded. "I need stitches," he said. "Forehead laceration."

One of the nurses nodded briskly. "Bloody?"

"Dried," the Spartan answered. "But it shouldn't be too dirty."

"Well, leave your helmet on for now – no reason to traumatize the kids. Follow me." John followed after the nurse, the dried blood starting to itch.

"And you two?" the doctor asked, gazing critically at the female Spartans.

"Mostly green, doctor," Kelly replied, unsealing her helmet and pulling it off. "We're just waiting for our gear to get out of deep storage; then we'll be able to assess."

The doctor nodded. "Don't be afraid to come here if you're injured," he told them sternly. Kelly nodded seriously. "You look dehydrated and starved."

Kelly snorted softly to herself, but nodded again. "It was rough on the surface," she admitted, shrugging carefully.

One of the nurses handed her a water bottle and then gestured for Linda to remove her helmet and handed the sniper Spartan another. "Drink this – right now, in front of me," she ordered, planting her hands on her hips. The doctor, seeing the pair in good hands, took himself away.

Both women complied, murmuring their thanks for the water. Another nurse brought over clean wet towels; the Spartans could at least wash off their hands and face, and did so eagerly. They went back grey with sweat, but both women felt much better.

"You're to go straight to the cafeteria and get some food once the Chief gets out here," the bossy nurse ordered. "Honestly. You need to take care of yourselves out there. What'd happen if you passed out from dehydration?"

Kelly grinned slightly. "We do take care of ourselves," she told the nurse. "When we can."

The older woman huffed, as though the Spartan's lack of personal care was an affront directly to her senses. "If I had charge of you," she said, wagging a finger at the Spartans, "I'd stuff you until you couldn't hold another bite, then put you to sleep for the next week."

"That's what we're planning on doing," Kelly assured her.

"Good. Lots of protein, you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And calcium."

"Yes, ma'am."

"We have some fresh food still aboard – get as much as you can of that before it's all gone. Nothing better for rebuilding than fresh food."

"Yes, ma'am." Kelly grinned again.

Before the woman could continue lecturing them, John returned, his helmet tucked under one arm. The nurse had cleaned the dried blood from his hair and face. His face was covered in dark stubble, making him look rather haggard, and the top of his forehead was covered in a clean white patch.

"And _you_." The bossy nurse turned on the male Spartan, observing him critically. Kelly and Linda, now out from under her scrutiny, exchanged a humored glance. "You keep that gash clean, young man, and come back here once you've eaten and slept so we can check on it."

"Yes, ma'am," John answered, his deep voice holding a hint of amusement.

"Drink this and get over to the cafeteria." The nurse handed him a water bottle and put her hands on her hips, watching him critically.

John drank the entire bottle down quickly, not pausing to breathe between swallows. He handed back the bottle with a quiet thanks and then assured the nurse that he wouldn't open his stitches. Satisfied, the nurse ordered them to the cafeteria again.

The trio found the cafeteria easily and, luckily, it was deserted. They picked up packets of rehydrated food, a fresh apple or orange each, and leaned against a wall to eat them, seeing as they couldn't sit at the tables.

They ate quickly and in silence. Once finished, Kelly gathered the trash and put it in the appropriate receptacles before rejoining her siblings. While they were still deciding what to do with themselves next, a private found them and politely asked if they would follow him to their garage, where the Spartan gear had been placed.

The familiar armor removal equipment made Kelly grin. Once the private left, the trio unpacked the rest of the equipment, including Spartan-sized fatigues, sleeping cots, and the toolkits for minor field repairs.

"Alright, John, you're up first," Kelly ordered, waving the Chief towards the largest machine in the bay. He didn't argue but lined up to the machine, backing into it carefully. Kelly and Linda quickly manipulated the thing's arms and it seized him.

"Like pulling a leech from skin," Kelly chuckled, initiating the machine's self-run removal sequence.

John grunted in agreement. First, his gel layer shrank away from his skin, leaving the armor feeling lose. Then it gently pulled off first his gloves, which Linda took, and then the forearm plates. The machine stacked the piece of the armor carefully onto a stand as it removed it from his body, for easier cleaning and repair. Kelly helped by unplugging his helmet from the rest of the armor and then decoupling the neural interface. Almost perceptively, John felt himself slowing down, the world around him moving more quickly – especially his sisters still in their armor.

The hardest part was the legs; once the chest and back pieces were removed, the thigh armor loosened and was carefully extracted. Then the machine loosened the knee joints and Kelly and Linda pulled him from the knee-length boots with a wet sucking sound.

The two females put John down and he turned around to grab his boots out of the machine.

"Your turn," he told his sisters, leaving them to choose who would go next as he added his boots to the armor rack. He rolled the whole thing out of the way and set up the next one.

Kelly ended up being de-armored next. The process was much the same; John and Linda stepped in and detached the necessary wires and tubes as the machine lifted away the heavy pieces of armor and loosened the joints. When they pulled Kelly out of her boots, she sighed happily, flexing her toes against the cold metal floor.

Once Kelly's armor was sitting on a rack next to John's, Linda backed into the machine and it repeated the process. Linda had slightly specialized armor; to allow her the freedom of movement a sniper needed, it was thinner in some places. As a result, she was the fastest out of her armor.

The trio observed their armor, now lifeless without a puppet master inside. John's was partially melted where the plasma bolts had burned through his shields. Kelly enjoyed wading into the fight more than shooting from a distance, so hers had more blood and gore on it. Linda's, compared to her siblings', was clean and relatively new-looking.

"I don't know if yours is salvageable," Kelly said, chewing on her lip as she eyeballed John's armor. "I wouldn't trust it."

"The techs are going to have your ass," she continued, circling the green MJOLNIR. "You go through more armor than both of us combined."

Linda went to the side of the garage and pulled over the long hose. Water was precious on ships, so this hose would produce undrinkable grey water, usually used for sluicing down a bloody, oily, or otherwise dirty deck.

They sprayed down the armor, washing the worst of the blood – and sweat – from each piece, inside and out. While Linda operated the hose, Kelly and John used a stiff-bristled brush and cloth respectively to get the dried messes out of the joints. Within a half-hour, all three Spartans were filthy again, this time their black bodysuits taking the brunt of the dirt and blood.

Rather than shower, however, the siblings instead repaired what they could. They replaced what seals they could, mending torn patches in the armor's inter-plate connections.

"Alright," Kelly groaned as she set aside her last piece, having replaced one of the speakers in her helmet that had blown. "I'm for a shower."

John and Linda agreed and the trio moved towards the communal showers. No one was inside, so they had the bank of thirty showers to themselves. They quickly stripped off their dirty bodysuits, but took them into the shower with them; they needed the scrubbing before they could go into the general laundry.

Linda carefully unwound the elastic wraps that held her breasts bound against her chest. Across the room, Kelly did the same, a little more aggressively. Both females had expressed their distaste at the completely useless blobs of fat and mammary glands, but part of their augmentations had _not_ included breast removal. Compared to many Marine females, though, the two Spartans were lucky; they _could_ tape their breasts down nearly flat. In the armor, jiggling was unacceptable. Linda remembered having to re-learn how to snipe after her chest had finished growing.

John, meanwhile, leaned over slightly to use the chest-height mirrors along one wall and shaved the stubble from his chin and neck. He did it quickly, managing not to nick himself, and then stepped into a shower. John quickly washed his sweaty and bloody hair and peeled the bandage from his forehead when it got soaked. He'd replace it later.

All three Spartans scrubbed their bodysuit, the water heading for the drain turning bluish-orange with the Covenant blood that had transferred from their armor onto the black suits. Then they tossed them carefully into the laundry bin, rinsed their own bodies off, and stepped out of the showers in unison.

John dressed quickly, not having to deal with a bra like his sisters. Kelly snapped the elastic against her chest and grunted unhappily. Linda prepared herself for another tirade against "men and their stupid flat chests," but her sister was more tired than she let on because she simply muttered unhappily as she slipped a shirt over her head.

"All set?" John asked, grinning slightly.

Kelly smacked him gently over the head; he let her, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "You shouldn't hit me," he admonished gently.

"_You_ should have to deal with boobies," Kelly replied, squirming out from her brother's arm.

John sighed, a soft chuckle in his voice. "I'm very glad not to have to. But at least you don't have to shave."

"Point," Kelly agreed, grinning. "At least I don't come off the battlefield looking shaggy."

John glanced at her hair, shaking his head. "You could use a haircut. You're over regulation length."

"Who's gonna notice?" Kelly asked, flipping her head. "I like it longer. It's not like we do anything out of our armor anyway."

"I noticed," John replied, "someone else might."

"Who else sees me outside of my armor?" Kelly snorted.

John conceded the point – it was a valid one. Rarely were the Spartans allowed out of their armor long enough for a crew of their newest ship to get to know them. Not that the Spartans encouraged friendliness; they tended to stay out of the way and out of sight, usually in cryosleep.

"Sleep next," Linda murmured, yawning widely and pulling her lips back from her teeth in a half-snarl. "And if _anyone_ wakes me up before a week's gone by, I'm going to be _very_ upset."

"Oooo," Kelly snickered, grinning. Linda's lack of a temper was almost legendary; it took a _lot_ to snap her. Kelly, on the other hand, was Linda's exact opposite.

"I will," Linda insisted, keying in the entrance key to the garage and crossing immediately to one of the cots. She chose the one further from the door; John took the one closest, leaving Kelly the middle cot.

"Good night," Kelly yawned, pulling the thin blanket up around her shoulders.

John and Linda muttered something incomprehensible back, already half-asleep as they crawled into the cots.

_~~HALO~~_

Heather forced herself to breathe normally as she sat up in the darkness. Something was moving in the dark room. Under her butt and legs, the hard soldier's cot and thin, scratchy woolen blanket dipped with her weight.

Heather heard the child's harsh breathing, about to turn into full-blown sobs. Rather than wake one of the teachers or another kid, Heather decided to take action.

"Hey," she called softly. The sniffling stopped, and then it started again, closer. "Come here." In the dark, she reached out – carefully, until her hand met the hair of a small child. She led the other kid by touch over to her bed, and they sat down together. Heather wrapped an arm around the kid's shoulders, like her mom did – _used to_, Heather reminded herself bleakly.

She didn't bother asking what was wrong. Everyone in this room was likely an orphan now. No one had heard from their families, though the nice nurses in the medical bay had promised to contact their closest living relatives as soon as possible.

"Wanna talk about it?" she asked instead, still keeping her voice low. Not whispering, because that traveled farther, but merely speaking softly and willing her words not to travel beyond the child's ears.

Mutely, the child shook his or her head.

"What's your name?"

"T-tom."

"Nice to meet you, Tom. I'm Heather." She slid her hand into the boy's, shaking it firmly but gently. He seemed to smile a little; his voice, at least, was less constrained when he spoke again.

"Aren't you in Mrs. Kwimby's art class?"

"Sure am," Heather replied, smiling slightly.

"You made the pretty drawing of a white flower, right?"

"Right," Heather said, smoothing the boy's hair. If he wanted to talk about simplicities of their old life, who was she to judge? "It's called an orchid. They usually come in purple, or blue, or speckled. It's rare to find an all-white one, unless it's a gene flower."

The boy nodded. "Do you like drawing?"

"I do," Heather assured him, tracing the tip of her finger on the bed next to her. "You can see – and make others see – all sorts of things through drawings. Like beauty."

"Like flowers?"

"Like flowers. Or meadows and springs and bubbling brooks. Or cityscapes. Or new worlds. You can take yourself - and anyone else – anywhere with drawing, even if that place doesn't exist."

"Is it hard?"

Heather shook her head, making sure Tom could hear the smile in her voice. "It is what you make it," she answered, quoting Mrs. Kwimby. "If you want to be realistic, it can be very hard. But anything you draw, anything at all, is beautiful and a work of art – and don't ever let anyone tell you different."

"Even if it's not pretty?"

"Even if it's not pretty," Heather replied.

"What if you don't want to draw pretty things, like meadows and springs and bubbling brooks?"

"Well, what do you want to draw?"

"Elites."

Heather blinked, her hand still on the boy's head.

"Is that bad?" Tom asked timidly, sensing her unhappiness.

"No, Tom," Heather answered, feeling out of her depth. "Elites… They're not pretty, but they're a reality – just as much, or more, than bubbling brooks, right?"

"Right."

"But why not paint something pretty?"

"'Cause pretty doesn't help anyone," Tom answered, sniffing. "_They_ aren't pretty, _they're_ mean and hurtful and angry and ugly and mean and… and mean," he finished.

"Yes," Heather answered quietly. "But that doesn't mean _we_ can forget what pretty things are, right?"

"What?" Tom looked at her and the teenager could almost hear the tiny boy's mind thinking – hard. For a four-year-old, he was precocious – which was probably why he'd been at the school after the bell rang.

"Well, if we let the Covenant make us forget everything that's good and beautiful and pretty in the world, they win, right?"

"I… guess."

"If you remember the pretty things – like beautiful cityscapes – then you remember what you're fighting for, and you can fight harder."

"But what if you don't remember anything pretty or beautiful?"

"Then you use this." Heather tapped Tom's forehead. "Use your imagination, Tom. Think of pretty things, like my flower. Or funny things, like when we got to dye our hair for the spring play. Or things that make you happy, like a new puppy or playing with your friends."

"And ignore the bad?" Tom asked, sounding unsure.

"No," Heather replied softly. "Never ignore anything, Tom. Just don't let it consume or control you. There's always something good to balance the bad."

"Okay."

Heather found herself stifling a yawn and patting Tom on the head. "Do you think you can sleep now?"

"Mhmm." Tom slid off her bunk, then turned and hugged the teenager tightly. "Thanks." Heather patted his back mutely and he went off to find his bunk again.

Heather lay back and stared into the darkness that stole her vision even though her eyes were open. She thought, long and hard, about her new circumstances. Her next step, she knew, would be making a decision. If her parents hadn't survived – and, coming from a middle-class family without relatives in the Inner Colonies, it was likely she was now an orphan – she would need to choose. Military orphanage, where she would be conditioned into a soldier and fight the Covenant, or civilian orphanage, where she would be crammed in a tiny room until she was eighteen and then thrust onto a planet not of her choosing, without friends or connections, to find a job or get an education and _then_ find a job.

There was security in the former; if she survived a five-year tour, she would be allowed to return to the civilian world, with an honorable discharge, and seek employment using her military skills – or return to school. She could even become an engineer or military technician and design the beautiful armor the Spartans had been wearing.

However, she could also die – and quickly. Heather didn't kid herself; she was a slight girl, often mistaken for ten or eleven years old even at sixteen. She might not even make the physical requirements of the military orphanages.

But going into a civilian orphanage could be the worse choice, of the two. Not only were they severely crowded, but they were often _not_ first on any evacuation protocol for a targeted planet. And there were horror stories about the kids and adults in the orphanages, from rape to bullying to other unmentionable terrors.

_Military_, Heather decided. _If it has to be one or the other… I will try military. If they can't take me… Then I'll apply for a Majority Waiver and stay with Aunt Neen on Earth until I can get into a college of _some_ sort. I won't let this ruin my life any more than it already has. _

They were tough words to think, and Heather knew that they would be even harder to fulfill. But she was determined.

_~~HALO~~_

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!"

"You're way too cheerful," John grumbled, rolling over onto his stomach and studiously ignoring his sister.

"What's that mean anyway?" Linda groaned, throwing her pillow at Kelly.

"It means 'get your ass outta bed before I toss you out of it'!" the Spartan female replied.

"What happened to sleeping for a week?" John asked.

"I got hungry."

"And why do you need us awake for that?"

"'Cause you need to get up."

"Why?"

"You sound like a two year old."

"Bite me."

"I might if you don't get up."

John scoffed and then yelped as Kelly tossed his bunk, with him in it, on its side, sending him into the cold, hard floor. He jumped up and made a grab for her, but she danced out of reach, grinning at him.

"There, you're up."

John grumbled something that might have been a curse and righted his cot. Unwilling to face the same treatment from their over-active sister, Linda pulled herself upright as well.

"I nominate Kelly to get the food," the sniper told John conversationally. "It's the least she can do, after rousing us so evilly."

"Hence the "eggs and bakey" part," Kelly assured them, slipping a shirt on over her tight-fitting bra. "The ship moves without us! If we want hot food, we need to go – now."

John frowned slightly. Hot breakfast sounded good – but facing the whispers and mutterings of the Marines on board did not.

"We'll be fine," Linda said quietly, leaning over to make her bed before she, too, got dressed.

John copied his sister, automatically stretching the thin blanket and sheets tightly to make the cot appear unused. Then he hunted down a pair of pants and a shirt, simple but clean, a luxury in itself.

Linda gathered her nape-length hair into a tiny puff of a ponytail and Kelly dragged a comb through her snarled locks. John smoothed his hair down with his hand and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. The two females joined him after a moment, both finally fully dressed, and they silently attended to their morning hygiene rituals.

Then, the trio assessed the garage silently – habit from years of surprise inspections – and headed into the hallway. John led the way and they walked single-file in deference for anyone trying to pass them. The hallways were just wide enough for a pair of armored Spartans to walk side-by-side, which meant an _unarmored_ Spartan pair walking side by side would block it almost as effectively.

"Food, then gym?" Kelly asked as they neared the cafeteria.

John nodded silently, already back into "public" Spartan mode. Face blank, mouth firm, eyes watching everything – it was his "public" face, when he had one.

Kelly and Linda similarly blanked out their expressions. They were free and easy with each other, but not so with other soldiers – even if they'd wanted to be included, it was rare that anyone saw past the armor.

John grabbed a tray from the pile next to the door and took his place in line. The man in front of him, sensing someone behind him, turned with a ready smile. It quickly faltered, though, as the Marine looked sharply up and inhaled quickly.

"Good morning," the man managed after a moment of shocked staring.

"Good morning," John replied evenly, sliding his tray into the line. Behind him, Kelly and Linda did the same, and then – almost unconsciously, though John knew Kelly's mischievous side was having fun at the Marine's expense – straightened into parade-rest, looking like statues. Only the soft breathing that moved their chests gave any indication the pair were alive.

The Marine stared for a moment and the line moved away without him; John cleared his throat softly and the man looked at him. Pointedly, John nodded with his chin towards the line; the man turned and then sheepishly moved forward, glancing over his shoulder all the time.

Under the scrutiny – the Marine wasn't the only one staring, outright or otherwise – John straightened his shoulders and dropped automatically into the same half-paralyzed state his sisters had adopted, moving only when the line did and to pile food on his tray.

Once all three Spartans had their fill, they turned to find a secluded table. One was empty; the rest were full. They quickly moved to the empty table and managed to squeeze themselves into the ends, leaving room between them – not that anyone would join them.

The trio ate with single-minded intensity. They didn't hurry, but they packed away food while others who had been in line before them were still finding seats and chatting with their friends.

Linda tucked away a pair of apples, peeling them first with her teeth – and eating the skin - and then munching on the tender white flesh. Then she attacked a hearty bowl of oatmeal, one of the most common breakfast foods onboard a ship because oats were cheap and easy to cook, into which she had mixed a handful of dried fruit bits.

Meanwhile, Kelly was almost half-way through her second bowl of oatmeal and still had an orange and banana to go. She had tucked away a few protein bars for snacks later, too, and had taken a tall pitcher of cold water for the group to share.

John chewed meditatively through two breakfast burritos, filled with scrambled egg substitute, rehydrated vegetables, and cheese. It was richer than he expected, and he traded his third burrito to Kelly for her banana, which he peeled and ate more slowly.

When all three were finished – despite the differences in food, they managed to do so at the same time, and not entirely by accident – the trio rose in a motion so uniform it could have been choreographed and headed for the trash window, sorting their breakfast remains appropriately and leaving the dirty trays for a dishwasher to gather up. The room hushed slightly as they moved, but since they ignored the soldiers, the same courtesy was granted to the Spartans.

John led his sisters out of the room and towards the gym. They passed a few soldiers in the hallways, including an officer, but the ship was relatively quiet.

Inside the large room, which was empty at this hour, the three moved immediately towards the 3-gee central portion of the gym. Linda decided to work on the punching bag, reinforcing it first with a secondary layer of cloth, while Kelly and John took it by turn to work through the freeweights, spotting each other.

While John bench-pressed, Kelly stood over him, ready to intervene if necessary – not that it would be, since the gym was equipped to handle regular Marines, not Spartans, and John would need to find something heavier to lift if he wanted to work on pure strength and not just endurance.

"Thoughts on the mission?" John asked after a few minutes, still pressing the bar steadily up and down. Kelly leaned back, crossing her arms, but Linda answered first.

"We left too many civilians behind," the woman mused, not pausing as she punched her "opponent."

"How can we improve that?"

"Forewarning," Kelly said immediately.

"Which we can't usually get," John pointed out. "The Covenant are faster than us. Even if we could find one of their battlegroups before it got to a planet, our fastest ship couldn't outrun it – and the fleet wouldn't have time to gather before the Covenant got to their target."

"Launch an offensive."

"Look how well that went last time," John pointed out, his voice tinted with a hard undertone that warned Kelly not to suggest it again. They'd been deep in enemy territory before – and there were rumors that some of their brothers and sisters were still out there, not MIA as publicly known.

"Evacuate the planets _now_. Retreat to the Inner Colonies."

"Which will lead them straight to Earth," John replied. All three knew it – they'd gone over this a dozen times together, still trying to out-think their imitative enemy. However, of the three, John was the only one who regularly led groups of Spartans, and the only one who had received anything like the leadership training offered to enlisted officers.

"Make everyone a Spartan," Kelly said, dead serious.

"Which would wipe out 90% - or more – of the population. Then we're just doing the Covvies' work for them," Linda replied, snorting.

"Not to mention," John said musingly, pausing with the bar extended above his head, "Spartans aren't good at much _except_ war, and there's plenty of things that need doing outside of the military."

Kelly nodded reluctantly. "Make civvie evacuations a higher priority?" she asked, frowning.

John shook his head, resuming his workout. "We need to hold off the Covenant still," he reminded her. "We can't do that as well if we're protecting refugees. We'd have to slow down."

Kelly hated anything slowing her down; she nodded thoughtfully. "My turn," she said, shooing the big man off the weight bench and lying down in his stead. John stood watch over her as she thought aloud.

"What about building more Pelicans? Fast as we can slap 'em together."

"Too many get hit getting out of the atmosphere with evacuees – civvies or wounded, doesn't matter," Linda agreed, frowning thoughtfully. "If we could build something bigger than a Pelican, meant _just_ to evacuate civilians and wounded from the planet… It wouldn't be weighed down by guns."

"It would need some sort of escort," John pointed out. "Or else they'd just be shot from the sky."

"So we build single-pilot escorts. Like high-altitude/space-faring Ghosts. Those things could protect a transport if there were enough of them, and they're small – we could build them quickly and cheaply."

"Or build exosuits like ours except mounted with machine guns and driven remotely. One pilot could protect one transport with ten or a dozen such suits."

John snorted softly. "The costs would be astronomical," he said.

"War is all about the money," Kelly sighed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

"I don't think brass is interested in the opinions of three Spartans," Linda said shrewdly. "At least, not about how to engage in full-scale attrition warfare. We're better suited to maneuver warfare."

"So how would we approach it, as a maneuver war?" John asked implacably. It was true that his – and his sisters' – opinions and thoughts likely wouldn't leave this room, but it was always interesting to hear what they could come up with.

"Be where your opponent isn't expecting you – or where he _isn't_," Linda answered.

"Hit strong and hard, against their weaknesses. Search out and destroy their centers of gravity," Kelly added.

John nodded. "Except," he pointed out, "that we don't know where the Covenant _are_, much less where they aren't. And we know some of their weaknesses, but their "weaknesses" still outmatch most of our strengths – except in creativity and will. We've destroyed every CoG we've come across, but there's definitely more – their homeworld, or HQ, or something, for example."

"So we find it."

"How?"

Kelly growled, frustrated. "I don't know, John. I'm just a Spartan."

John sighed, half in agreement, but then shook his head. "We may need to start thinking like that," he told his sisters. "Pretty soon, we're going to be _out_ of senior personnel with long-term experience."

Both Spartan females turned to him in shock; John nodded grimly. He'd been given the information in confidence, but his sisters needed to know.

"Things aren't nearly so pretty as ONI wants everyone to believe," he said quietly. "We've lost more than half of our population so far." Kelly sucked in a breath, a slight tremor coursing through her as she tried to imagine so many lives. "And not just civilians. Political leaders, entire corporations, heads of states, military strategists… The list goes on."

"So that's why brass wants us to recruit kids so damn bad." Kelly whistled. "We need them – not just to rebuild our population, but to keep it around."

John nodded. "And most of the orphans we picked up this time around are going to be offered a choice. Military or civilian orphanage."

Linda looked up sharply from where she had been concentrating on her punching bag; John nodded to silent question. "To train as soldiers."

"Another Spartan program?" Kelly asked quietly.

"Not quite," John said, shrugging in puzzlement. "I'm not sure of all the details. I probably shouldn't even know this much. But they will be younger than the legal age of conscription – and they will receive full military training."

"What's the age limit?"

"Fourteen, to start training. They're starting – quietly – to recruit willing volunteers from the civilian orphanages already. They'll take younger and keep them until they're fourteen – I think."

Kelly nodded. Fourteen wasn't bad – she'd been that young when she'd been made a full soldier of the UNSC. Still, she'd been trained for years before that, and she wouldn't trade it for anything. Kids, though, fresh from the shock of losing their entire planet? She sensed there was more than simple planning behind this maneuver.

"Are we that desperate?" she asked herself quietly. Meeting John's eyes, she knew he was asking himself the same question – and that he had no answer for either of them.

_~~HALO~~_

Heather wolfed down a breakfast burrito with single-minded intensity. Next to her, Tom from last night was trying to inhale his oatmeal and coughed; she reached over with one hand and pounded him on the back.

All of the children were similarly hungry. Instead of the usual chatter that accompanied meal-time in the school cafeteria, the sound of hungry chewing and, occasionally, politely asking for more water filled the room.

Soldiers walked between the rows, available if a child needed help, while the teachers sat at their own table, eating just as heartily. They'd all been fed nasty protein bars before falling asleep, but everyone was hungry this morning – if it really was morning.

Heather finished her burrito and burped, sighing contentedly. Tom licked his bowl clean and then downed a full glass of water. On Heather's other side, a shy thirteen-year-old, Nancy, peeled and ate a ripe orange piece by piece.

Heather sipped at her glass of water, considering their situation. To keep the kids fit and healthy – and diverted, she though shrewdly – they would be shown to a recreational room and the gym. They'd get to use both in rotation. They'd even continue classes, as much as possible – most of the school's teachers were missing, but the on-board AI would likely be able to fill in the gaps. They needed _something_ to fill the days until they reached their destination.

_Will we see the Spartans again?_ Heather wondered to herself. She'd last seen the three green soldiers while she was leaving the docking bay. No one else seemed to be interested in their eventual fate. Did they go into cryo? If they were robots, did they just shut down?

"Alright, attention!" One of the soldiers, an older fellow with a clean-shaven face and ratty brown-blonde hair, stood at the front of room, next to the door. Heather turned and watched him silently as he spoke. "I know it's been a hard few days on all of you." There was sympathy in the man's voice, but also disciplined resolve. It made Heather want to prove to him that _she_ wouldn't be useless with grief. "We'll be providing you with distractions, but if at any time you feel the need to speak to anyone about what happened – and what will happen – to you, there are several on-board psychologists who would be happy to speak to you. Just ask one of us," he waved to the other soldiers in the room, "to take you to one of them."

He smiled gently, looking over the crowd. "You're scared, and lonely, and we understand that. And we don't want to belittle what happened to you. It's terrible, what happened, and we'd do anything to reverse it if we could. But we can't, so we'll have to live with it. Alright?"

There were several mutters, confused and timid, in agreement. Heather said nothing. She'd already made her decision to move on, and she didn't need to broadcast it.

"You will all be given a choice, when we get to our destination." No one had told them where they were actually headed. "You can join a military orphanage or a civilian one, if your next of kin cannot or will not take you. If you are over fourteen, the military option will result in your being trained until you reach your adulthood and can join the UNSC ranks. If you're younger, we'll put you in school until you're old enough to start training. The civilian option, whatever your age, means you will be taken by the first orphanage that has space – and not many have extra room, so you may be waiting a while – and given schooling until you finish secondary or reach the age of eighteen, whichever comes first. Then you will be expected to find a school and pursue higher education, or find a job – or both."

Heather nodded to herself. That was what she'd been expecting. She'd made her choice, too.

Tom, next to her, sat up straight in his seat, apparently trying to appear older and serious. "Which are you going to do?" she asked him.

"Military," he replied immediately, eyes locked on the man at the front of the room. "I wanna kill Covvie bastards."

"Tom!" Heather hissed, frowning. "We don't use foul language."

"This is the military," Tom replied, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "We cuss."

Heather frowned. This was not the same boy she'd comforted last night. He seemed to sense her confusion and said, lowly so no one could overhear, "I think you're wrong about beauty. There's beauty in the world, and it's worth protecting, but when you're a soldier, you've got to concentrate only on the bad stuff – 'cause if you don't, you get killed."

Heather shifted in her seat, unconsciously moving away from the boy. He smiled – there was a tinge of sadness to it – and refocused his entire concentration on the man at the front of the room.

"We'll start in the gym," the man was saying. "I'm sure you all have some excess energy to run off."

Tom nodded eagerly, standing immediately. Heather followed more slowly. Exercise, right after eating? She was going to regret that second burrito.

_~~HALO~~_

The trio of Spartans were wrestling in a free-for-all in the boxing ring when the gym door opened. Kelly, half lying on John's knees as she fought to keep him from getting to his feet again, looked up – and immediately whistled a halt to the wrestling. The doorway was quickly filling with children, pushed by those behind them into the gym.

At their head was a slightly older soldier, lines worn deep into his face – but the worry lines were fainter than those of laughter. He looked around the gym and spotted the trio, who had risen fluidly to their feet; he nodded a polite greeting, which John returned.

Other soldiers and the teachers were interspersed in the crowd, likely to keep the peace and keep anyone from running off. Kelly spotted a few of the children she'd taken special note of, including the young girl she'd comforted on the Pelican and the older girl who was still wearing the silver-grey sweatshirt John had found for her.

"Good morning," the grizzled old man said, in a friendly tone, striding over to the boxing ring and leaning against the ropes, crossing his arms.

"Good morning," John replied, moving fluidly into his role as "spokesperson" for the trio. "Do you need the gym?"

"They need distraction," the soldier agreed, his words making it clear he was talking about the children. "But you are welcome to stay. We'll make a lot of noise, but we shouldn't bother you – too much." He grinned, inviting them to join in the joke.

John didn't need to glance at his sisters to know they'd prefer more time in the gym. "We'll stay in the 3-gee area," he said, ducking under the ropes and sliding onto the floor.

"Alright," the older man agreed, still cheerful. He waved to the other soldiers in the crowd; they began dividing the children into small groups. Then he turned back to John, who was about to turn away, and – very quietly – cleared his throat. The Spartan turned back around, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

"You're the team that rescued them?" the soldier asked, pitching his voice not to carry. John did the same with his reply.

"Yes," the Spartan answered simply.

"I know you're not a big fan of kids… But they're scared, and they've bonded to you – you rescued them. Would you spend some time with them?"

Kelly smirked slightly, tossing her head upwards in a silent nod. Linda, her expression impossible to read, dipped her head.

"We don't dislike children," John said quietly, looking over at the group. "Just don't know them."

The soldier nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I'm sure they'd appreciate meeting you – again, even if they don't know who you really are. Then… Just be around. They'll come to you if they want to."

Kelly didn't wait for John to reply; she moved out from his shadow and towards the group of children. They were listened raptly to a young female soldier, who was explaining the age-old game of tag. The others were moving equipment to make something of a jungle-gym playground area.

Kelly shadowed the female soldier, waiting to be noticed. The woman glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, did a short double-take, and then recovered and continued explaining the game to her charges, one eye on the Spartan.

Linda joined Kelly on the woman's other side, standing with her hands behind her back. John, meanwhile, chose to stand next to Kelly, his broader bulk making the fast Spartan immediately look smaller – no small feat.

"Uh… Um." The woman addressing the children was clearly startled by their arrival – and attention – of the three Spartans, who stood silently, observing the children. "Er…" It was clear she was trying to ask – politely – what the Spartans were doing.

Kelly took pity on the woman and stepped forward, moving almost unconsciously so that John was halfway behind her, almost looming. He hated it when she did that; she could almost hear his irritated thoughts.

_~~HALO~~_

Heather caught her breath, staring at the three _huge_ soldiers. That they were soldiers was blatantly obvious, though they were wearing the typical green mottled clothing without any of the pins, bars, or embroidery that livened up the clothing of the other, normal-sized soldiers still moving stuff around in the room.

The middle-sized Spartan, a female, moved forward. The man behind her seemed to loom over her, making her seem smaller and he, larger, if that was possible. Were these the Spartans? Or just soldiers of incredible size?

"Good morning," the woman said calmly, her hands clasped behind her back. She stood straight and proud; Heather would have thought she was posing for a camera except that the pose seemed so natural.

"Good morning," the children replied, in a ragged chorus.

"We're glad you're all safe and well," the woman continued, her short hair catching the light as she moved her head. It was dyed – Heather thought it might be a dark purple or blue, but couldn't quite tell. She was at the back of the group, straining to see over some of her classmates. "You already know us, but probably don't recognize us. We're the Spartans who got you off that planet. I'm Kelly." She lifted a hand and waved to the man behind her. "That's John. And this is Linda." She waved to the other tall woman with bright red hair. John, unlike the two women, had regular brown or dark blonde hair.

Now that her suspicions about the identity of the three strangers was confirmed, Heather strained to see them more closely. They were all wearing pants and short-sleeved shirts, and had clearly been working out recently, by the sweat stains that made a V pattern down the front of their shirts and under their arms.

John was bulkier than the other two, and he had to be close to seven feet tall. From her spot at the back, Heather couldn't see his eyes, but something about the way he watched them made her think they missed _nothing_. She thought he locked gazes with her for a moment, but was unsure, since his head kept turning smoothly, as though assessing the group for threats. His shoulders were bunched and muscular, but not like the super-ripped body builders. Heather didn't know much about body building, but just looking at John, she was sure that every inch of him was covered in muscle – useful muscle, too, meant to run around battlefields for days on end and carry heavy armor on top of it. His skin was a pale white, as though he didn't see the sun much – which made sense, if she thought about how she had never seen a Spartan televised outside of their armor.

Kelly, next to John, seemed shorter and leaner – maybe 6'8", something around there. Where John was a heavy lifter, Kelly looked like a runner – albeit a larger, more muscular runner than Heather was used to seeing on televised sprinting competitions. Her hair was still glinting either dark purple or blue, and Heather was still unsure of which color it really was. She had tiny breasts, the only thing Heather might consider small on the woman. Some of Heather's bustier classmates had larger chests than she did. But, that made sense – the armor hadn't looked at all different between John and Kelly when they'd introduced themselves in the school gym, and having to make different variants to leave room for breasts would be stupid and not efficient.

Linda, standing next to the soldier who had been telling them the rules of tag, almost looked normal. She probably stood 6'6", only slightly shorter than Kelly, but almost "normal" looking. Her red hair, though, caught the light and made it look like her head was on fire. Her skin was even paler than the other Spartans', making her look like a ghost. She had only joined them after they had reached the Pelicans on the planet, and she'd been carrying a really long rifle. She was probably a sniper, then. She hardly moved, standing so absolutely still that Heather had to look right at her to notice her.

Heather made herself stop staring – it was rude – and paid attention as Kelly surrendered the floor to the woman who had been explaining the game to the children. It was clear that the shorter soldier was a little shaken, which made Heather wonder if seeing Spartans out of their armor – now she _knew_ they weren't robots – was as common as she'd assumed. Apparently, seeing them in the flesh was very rare. She wondered if they liked it that way.

"The objective of the game is simple," the soldier said, continuing from where she'd left off. "We'll pick one person to the "it" – that person will give everyone five seconds to run away from them and then chase and tag – touch – anyone they can. Anyone who is tagger will come and sit down with us on the sidelines. The last person who isn't tagged will win a treat. Sound fun?"

Heather looked around the gym. With seventy kids, there wouldn't be many places to hide – and this wasn't a game of hiding, but of running. She hoped no one would get hurt.

"Does anyone want to volunteer to be "it"?" the woman asked, looking over the crowd and smiling in an inviting manner.

_Not me_, Heather thought, shifting – carefully, so she didn't call attention to herself – behind Kris's back. He was much taller than her, and wider – she was completely hidden from the view of all four soldiers standing at the head of the group. Kris, catching her move, grinned back at her.

"Don't want to be it?" he teased, smiling. He was a gentle soul, despite his size. His brown eyes were kind. He looked older than his real age – fourteen; he had been advanced to Heather's class because of his intelligence – because he shaved his head bald every morning without fail. It made his head look big; Heather thought he would have been more handsome with his hair, but she didn't know what kind or color it was. His eyebrows were a dark brown.

"No," Heather replied honestly. "I couldn't catch half the kids here."

"Don't sell yourself short," he replied. "You could probably get at least three quarters of us."

Heather punched him – gently – and he grinned, looking back towards the front.

The child eventually chosen to be "it" – no one had volunteered after all – was an eleven-year-old girl. She had stayed after school as part of the track and field sport program – Heather groaned to herself. The girl's name was Samantha, and despite her tiny size, she could outrun anyone in the school. But she was a sprinter, Heather remembered – probably no good at endurance. So Heather would just have to avoid her in the immediate rush.

It was warm in the gym, Heather realized as she

"Alright, the "it" will turn her back and you'll all be given five seconds to get away," the soldier said. Heather looked for the Spartans and found them – they stood further into the gym, still as statues; other soldiers were standing close to the walls. "When you're tagged, go to one of the walls and stay there, touching it. You can sit or stand, but you can't leave the wall."

Heather was already moving, though, as the woman put up the last rules – no punching, kicking, hitting, blah blah blah. Play fair and play nice.

Samantha turned her back and closed her eyes, and Heather broke into a trot. The kids around her, too, scattered; she headed into the gym, trying to put a lot of equipment between her and Samantha. If she could stay out of the girl's line of sight, maybe she wouldn't get tagged.

She passed one of the Spartans, who was standing completely still. Glancing up, Heather recognized Kelly's hair – it _was_ blue – and blinked as she tried to figure out what looked so _wrong_ about the woman in her quick glance.

_Her eyes_, Heather realized as she jogged past. _They looked different_. She would look closer next time she got a chance – now, though, she had to hide.

"Here I come," Samantha yelled behind her. Heather, rather than bolt, halted slowly, trying not to call attention to herself. She heard a soft chuckle to her left and glanced over; John was crouched behind a weight bench, one hand on the floor, the other on his knee. He looked ready to bolt. He was watching her, no sign of the chuckle she'd heard on his face. She peered closer, remembering Kelly's eyes, and figured out what was "wrong" about the man's eyes. The pupils were larger than she expected, the irises ringed in a dark band. They looked alien.

His forehead sported a tan bandage that was actually darker than the skin around it. It was fairly large, and Samantha thought she could see the tail end of stitches poking out of one side.

"You might want to move."

Heather blinked as the man spoke, his voice hardly loud enough for her to hear. She glanced backwards – sure enough, Samantha was headed towards her. Several kids were already on the wall, some pouting. The younger girl was tagging everyone in sight, but slowly coming closer, even if Heather didn't seem to be her target – yet.

"Any ideas?" she asked the Spartan, moving – slowly – towards him, thinking to hide behind the equipment like he was.

The man regarded her silently for a moment; a slight softening of his features made Heather think he was smiling, though his lips didn't even twitch.

"Don't get caught."

Heather snorted and then crouched next to the Spartan, copying his position. She could smell him – something undefinably _masculine_ underlay his faintly sweaty scent.

"Something a little more helpful?"

"Samantha is a sprinter," John replied, absolutely still. Heather had to look closely to make out the movement of his chest that showed he breathed. "A good one, that I've seen. But she's got no long-term wind." He looked expectantly at her.

Heather frowned, nodding. "So if I just keep her moving – or, at least, let her wear herself down catching everyone else – I can probably outlast her, right?"

"If you've got the endurance."

Heather nodded. "And if I don't throw up my breakfast."

The man's features softened again, as though he were smiling; Heather returned the barely-there expression with a smirk. She leaned forward slightly; Samantha had moved off. Less than a dozen kids left. Heather looked back at the Spartan, but he was gone; she looked around and he was already half-way across the gym, crouched – again – behind another piece of equipment.

Were the Spartans part of the game?

Heather stayed where she was as Samantha tagged more children. The girl was definitely having trouble; Heather could see her movements slowing except when she put on a burst of speed to tag someone nearby. The gym was big, but not too big; Heather rose slowly, revealing herself. Samantha glanced over, clearly seeing her, but they were too far apart for the teenager to be a target.

"Nicely played." The voice was right behind Heather; she jumped and turned, almost tripping over the equipment she'd been hiding behind. Kelly's hand gently gripped Heather's upper arm, steadying her.

"Thanks," Heather said, looking around again. It was imperative she keep Samantha in her sights.

The woman nodded and glanced over Heather's shoulder. "You're next." Kelly turned and was gone; Heather made herself _not_ goggle at the Spartan's speed and looked behind her. Sure enough, Samantha was coming for her – slowly, though Heather was sure she'd put on a burst of speed at the end to catch the older teenager.

Heather jogged away, keeping her pace such that Samantha was – very slowly – catching up. Heather affected a slight limp, as though injured, and looked around.

There were two kids left. A fourteen-year-old football player named Thom and a fifteen-year-old artist named Nicky. They were both standing, waiting for a development; Thom leaned against a piece of gym equipment but Nicky was out in the open. Heather slowly led Samantha towards the older teenager.

Nicky, noting her danger, trotted away. Heather glanced back; Samantha was closer than comfortable. She sped up slightly, catching up to Nicky – but the girl knew Heather wasn't it, and merely nodded, gasping slightly for breath. Heather grinned in greeting and then moved sideways, "accidentally" bumping into Nicky as though she had stumbled.

"Hey!" Nicky protested. Samantha was close; Heather jumped away as the young girl suddenly sped up into a sprint, heading straight for the pair. Nicky wasn't paying attention to her, and Heather was already moving quickly away – Samantha tagged the older artist.

Nicky grumbled but walked slowly over to the wall. She accepted a bottle of water from a solider and assured him she was fine. Heather turned her attention back to Samantha, who was standing, regaining her breath.

Heather looked over at Thom. The fourteen-year-old boy stared back at her, a slight smirk on his face. Thom was a notorious bully, though he was very subtle about it. And he was beloved by all the teachers because of his sports abilities – they'd won several championship games because of his abilities.

The trick that had tagged Nicky out wouldn't work with the larger boy, Heather knew. She'd have to get creative.

Leaving Samantha to recover her breath, Heather turned and jogged towards where she'd last seen John. If the Spartans _were_ part of the game, could she convince him to play on her side?

He wasn't behind the weight bench where she'd last seen him, but the gym wasn't big enough for a Spartan to hide forever. Kelly or Linda would be just as good, but Heather thought John might be more willing to be on her team.

She didn't broadcast her plan, though, by calling his name. However, when she turned away from yet another piece of equipment that hadn't been hiding the giant man, she nearly ran into his chest.

"Looking for me?" There was _definitely_ humor in his voice as Heather looked up; she had to step back to do it.

"Yeah," Heather answered, glancing past him. Samantha was teasing Thom, but it was clear she wouldn't be able to catch him, and was just playing for time. "Are you in the game?"

"Yes." John seemed to approve of Heather's question; at least, he didn't seem annoyed. Heather nodded thoughtfully.

"Are you allowed to help us?"

"If you ask."

"If I asked you to grab Thom and hold him still so Samantha could tag him, would you do it?"

"Not so direct."

Heather frowned thoughtfully, then looked at where Thom was outmaneuvering Samantha, weaving in and out of the gym equipment but not staying too far away.

"What if you herded him?"

"Where?"

"Towards Samantha."

John nodded. "That we could do." There was definitely approval in his voice now.

"We?"

"We." Kelly and Linda suddenly appeared, though Heather could have sworn they hadn't been anywhere nearby while she was talking to John.

"You come as a team?" Heather guessed. John nodded. "Okay, cool." Heather looked around the Spartans again. Samantha was still chasing, half-heartedly, after Thom. She looked back at John, and he watched her – he wanted something, clearly, but she wasn't sure what.

_Orders_, Heather realized. _They're waiting for orders_. Kelly seemed to guess the direction of the girl's thoughts and tilted her head, just barely – enough that Heather figured she was nodding.

"Alright." She looked back at John. "Your orders are to herd Thom towards Samantha so that she can tag him."

All three Spartans struck smart salutes, and though Heather sensed they weren't being sarcastic about it, she also knew they were enjoying themselves.

They turned and moved off, splitting up immediately. Kelly pulled ahead of her fellow Spartans; John and Linda dropped to shadow her. They moved like a wolf pack, knowing exactly where the others would be, and how to move together. Heather climbed onto a tall piece of gym equipment to watch.

Kelly came at Thom from the gym's center as he was about to duck around a weight bench; she loomed up suddenly and he stopped. Heather could hear him yelp softly in surprise. But Kelly didn't move towards him, only stood in his way – she had chosen to surprise him at a choke-point, so his only option was to turn around.

He did so quickly, running away from the Spartan as though the woman was "it" herself. Kelly remained motionless, but Linda moved next, pacing Thom as he tried to leave the thick obstacle course and get back into the more open area nearer the door. She didn't let him pass, and he wasn't willing to try ducking around her. She was definitely faster than him.

Without a choice, Thom turned back into the maze of gym equipment. Samantha didn't seem to know what was going on, but she chased Thom as he moved through the equipment. Linda ran around the perimeter of the obstacle course, keeping Thom from leaving it. Kelly appeared randomly at choke-points, turning the fourteen-year-old back from his intended course. Several times, Samantha got close enough to almost grab him, but Thom avoided her with desperate twists of his body.

Heather saw John pacing the boy and figured it was about to end. She watched closely as Kelly and Linda moved in as well, corralling both children into smaller and smaller portions of the obstacle course. John blocked one of the exits; the two females herded Thom towards Samantha as he tried to escape.

"You're it!"

Heather grinned as Samantha finally grabbed a fistful of Thom's shirt, a desperate lunge that ended with both of them falling to the floor. The three Spartans moved away again, heading back towards Heather; she climbed down from the equipment quickly.

"Nice work," she said, grinning, when John came to a halt in front of her.

"Orders carried out, ma'am," he said formally, a faint shadow of a grin crinkling the skin around his weird eyes. "Thom has been tagged, and you remain the last one standing."

"Thank you," Heather replied, grinning and saluting – as well as she could, anyway. The trio returned the salute and then moved away. Heather trotted towards the group, grinning with delight.

Samantha stumbled over and half-heartedly touched the teenager. "You're the last one," she gasped. "And I'm done. So done. So, _so_ done."

"Nice job," Heather told her, hugging her around the shoulders – and half-way supporting her. The girl was exhausted. "You even got Thom."

"With the help of the Spartans," Samantha reminded her, frowning. "Why'd they step in like that?"

Heather merely shrugged. If no one else had figured it out, _she_ wasn't about to throw away her advantage.

Thom, however, glowered unhappily as they met him at the wall. Heather accepted a bottle of water from one of the soldiers, who grinned and winked at her. She smirked back silently and downed a few gulps of the cold liquid gratefully. Even without having run around like Samantha, she _had_ spent more time jogging than she was used to, and the gym was warm.

"Alright, everyone, how're we feeling?"

Most responded with "great" or "good" – a few groaned, those who had only been recently tagged and so spent most of the game jogging or running. Samantha didn't even groan; she flopped to the ground and leaned against the wall, exhausted.

"Ready for another game?" the woman soldier asked.

Samantha groaned, shaking her head. "Mercy," she muttered just loud enough for Heather to hear; the sixteen-year-old chuckled.

"Oh, come on – the next game is going to be tons of fun." The woman grinned, and most of the kids responded in kind. Heather looked for the Spartans – they were standing in the middle of the gym, holding colorful balls of – something. Maybe cloth? Heather focused back on the female soldier addressing the group.

"You objective this time will be to get those colored balls from the Spartans." There were snorts of amusement.

"No one gets something from a Spartan they don't wanna give up," Kris chuckled, coming up on Heather's left. "Nice job, Heather." He held up his hand; Heather smacked it with her open palm, a high-five.

"Thanks," Heather replied. "There's gonna be a trick to it. Listen." She turned back to the soldier.

"The Spartans can't move if they're touching one of the colored balls. If you get it away from them, _then_ they can move – but only inside the first ring. If they get the ball back, they have to freeze where they are. You must bring all three balls back to me to win the game. Any questions?"

"Are there teams?" Heather asked, frowning slightly.

"You're all one team," the woman replied, grinning slightly. "You'll need the numbers, trust me."

Heather nodded, set down her water bottle, and looked across the gym. She could have sworn John was grinning; the trio was standing in the very center of the ring, their backs to each other.

_Three Spartans, three balls_, Heather thought to herself, chewing on her lip absently. _Three teams._ She nodded to herself and turned back to Kris.

"Let's split into teams," she suggested, keeping her voice down – the babbling of the other children would cover her words. "We need a sprinter, a thrower, a catcher, and a distraction on each team."

"Got a plan?" Kris asked, grinning.

"Something like that," Heather agreed. "The distraction will move in and distract the Spartans. Then the thrower will grab the ball and throw it to the catcher. The catcher will be half-way to the outside of the ring. They'll give the ball to the sprinter, and the sprinter will run for it."

"They might be able to move faster than a thrown ball," Kris said, frowning.

"Not if there's a kid hanging onto each leg. They said nothing about _us_ holding onto _them_."

Kris grinned and moved through the crowd of kids. No one else had yet come up with a plan, so they were willing to try hers. Those who were good at throwing – like Thom – were divided into one of three teams. The catchers could be anyone. Samantha offered to be a sprinter on one team despite still being tired from the previous game, but when another kid – a fifteen-year-old, faster simply because he had more training – told her to rest this game, she agreed without argument.

Heather set herself to organizing the four- to six-year-olds (there were a dozen in all) to be the distractions and "weights."

Heather led her groups over to the boundary and crossed into the first ring. To her surprise, she immediately felt heavier, as though she was carrying a heavy backpack – a _really_ heavy backpack.

_Higher gravity_, Heather realized. That would mean that throwing the balls would take more effort – and the sprinters couldn't move all that quickly. She moved – the term "waded" came to mind – out of the ring again, waving to the sprinters.

"Change of plans," she muttered when they grouped together. "You'll be here, on the boundary. It's heavier gravity in the center; you can't run as quickly." The kids, some older but mostly younger than her, nodded in agreement.

"We'll need two throwers on each team," Heather continued. "No catcher."

Everyone shuffled accordingly. Their secondary throwers weren't as powerful as the first – but hopefully, they could throw accurately enough for the sprinters to catch the balls.

"Everyone know the plan?" Heather asked. No one disagreed, so she nodded. "Distractions and weights in, then."

The smallest children swarmed into the first ring, immediately slowed by the extra gravity. Heather had no doubt that the Spartans were used to it and could move through it as though unencumbered – if she didn't do something to unbalance them.

The kids clambered over the Spartans. Two hung onto their legs, one to a leg, sitting on their feet; it was a common game for them, though they were outgrowing it. One other, per Spartan, climbed up onto the soldiers' shoulders, holding onto their heads as though riding on their shoulders. Heather thought she heard John chuckle faintly, but wasn't sure.

"Throwers," she ordered, trying to sound authoritative. The assigned throwers moved into the circle. "Clear the lines for the runners." The children who didn't have a part to play were bunched up and would slow down the sprinters; they moved away from the three chosen runners.

Three pair of throwers now stood in the circle. The primary stood next to the Spartans, waiting for the order; the secondary positioned themselves half-way between the center and their assigned sprinter.

"Now!" Heather shouted. The distractors feinted towards the colored balls, and the primary throwers snatched the balls out of the hands of the adults. The trio of Spartans could move now – Heather bit her lip as John, the one facing her position, took a careful step forward. His hesitation gave Jeff, the primary thrower assigned to the Spartan's blue ball, enough time to take two steps away and throw the ball to Asad. It fell short, sucked to the floor by the higher gravity. Asad immediately ran towards it, but was too slow; John made it there first.

The Spartan froze as soon as he had the ball again. "Again," Heather yelled encouragingly. She checked on the other two groups. Linda's group was the furthest towards the outer edge of the ring, but the Spartan had the ball again. Kelly's group hadn't managed to throw the ball before she'd snatched it back.

Linda's red ball was the first out of the circle; Linda halted at the edge as Bruno, the sprinter assigned to Red Team, turned and ran back towards the female soldier waiting by the wall. The children not busy with the other two Spartans cheered and laughed.

However, the red ball's capture meant that there was now a Spartan free to move in the ring. Linda immediately targeted John's team. They'd managed to get two-thirds of the way to the edge of the ring; Linda moved into position, still careful not to hurt the kids hanging onto her legs and shoulders, between the primary and secondary throwers.

"Kurt, Kris, help Jeff and Asad!" Heather yelled into the chaos. Children were shrieking with laughter. Kelly's team still hadn't managed to throw the ball away from her yet. Heather decided that taking the blue ball out of the running first was more important; then the six throwers/catchers could team up on the fast Spartan.

Jeff grabbed the ball from John's hands, allowing the male Spartan to move. The boy threw the ball towards Kurt, who was still running towards the group to help. Kurt caught it, and John moved towards him; Kurt quickly pivoted and threw the ball again, this time to Asad. Linda reached out and snatched the ball from the air, freezing herself.

This, however, left John free, and he moved immediately between Asad and the ring, clearly intending to intercept the ball before it could leave the bounds of the circle.

"Surround him," Heather yelled. Kurt nodded, showing he understood. He stood next to Linda, ready to snatch the ball away from her. Jeff stood on John's right; Asad, on the Spartan's left. They would keep him from moving side-to-side easily, because he'd have to avoid them. More kids, seeing the pair's intention, moved into the circle and surrounded the Spartan. Kris moved farther back, near the edge of the line. It would be difficult for Kurt to throw the ball all the way to his partner, but Kris wouldn't have a hard time getting the ball to the assigned sprinter.

Kurt snatched the ball from Linda and threw it immediately, not pausing to take two steps away from the Spartan. Linda moved – John, ringed by children, was effectively trapped.

Kris grabbed the ball near the floor; it had almost not been close enough. He straightened and threw the ball towards the assigned sprinter; she caught it, hugging it to her chest, and then dashed back towards the waiting soldier. Again, the children cheered.

But now there were two "free" Spartans in the circle, and John was – gently but quickly – moving children out of the way simply by picking them up and setting them aside. The two Spartans also now peeled the children off of their legs and shoulders, setting them down and then moving quickly out of the way. There was no way any of the kids could keep up with the faster soldiers, especially in the high-gravity environment.

Kelly's green ball, on the other hand, was at least a third of the way towards the edge of the circle. A lucky throw, Heather guessed – and then saw that one of the older children, eight years old, was hanging onto the woman's hand and sitting down, preventing her from quickly snatching the ball back as the Spartan had been doing.

Divested of their "weights," Linda and John quickly moved between the pair of throwers and their assigned sprinter. Heather frowned. The pair could easily intercept any thrown ball, even if they put up more throwers and catchers.

"Jacob!" Heather yelled into the circle. The secondary thrower turned, tilting his head in silent question. "No more assigned sprinter. Throw to anyone!"

Jacob nodded and turned back to his task. Jeff, Kurt, Kris, and Asad lined up, giving Mike, the primary thrower of Green Team, several targets to choose from. The kids who had surrounded John now encircled both Linda and John, trapping them against the edge of the circle.

Mike grabbed the ball from Kelly's hand and side-armed it towards Asad. Asad moved forward, intent on catching it; but suddenly John was there. He grabbed the ball from the air and froze again. Heather wasn't sure how he'd gotten out of the ring of children, but a kid next to her whispered, "Wow… He just jumped over them, did you _see_ that?"

Heather frowned. They needed a new tactic. Now Kelly and Linda were "loose," but Linda, at least, still looked trapped. Maybe she couldn't jump over the wall of kids, but it hadn't stopped John. Kelly was the fastest of the trio, as far as Heather knew.

"Keep trying," Heather called encouragingly, turning away from the circle. She jogged back towards the female solider. A half-dozen curious kids followed, mostly seven or eight years old.

"Nice job, chica," the soldier said when Heather came to a stop in front of the older woman. "Two down, one to go."

"Do you have any more of those balls?" Heather asked, nodding to the blue and red balls sitting on a cart.

"Sure do," the woman replied, cocking an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Can I have them?" Heather asked politely. The soldier nodded and gestured to another solider; he handed Heather a bag. She peeked inside; it was filled with multi-colored balls like the ones they'd already "recovered."

"Thanks." Heather turned and trotted back to the group. Things had devolved; Kelly had the ball again, and was back in the center of the circle. Heather's team had lost ground.

Heather passed the balls out to the children around her and whispered their instructions in their ears. They giggled and dashed into the circle, moving as quickly as they could against the increased gravity.

There were a dozen balls in the circle now, several of them green. Half a dozen children surrounded John and "tagged" him with their cargo; he froze, glancing at Heather as she smirked at him. His lips twitched, as though he was holding back a grin. Four other children surrounded Linda in the same manner, freezing her. The last two climbed onto Kelly, making sure to hold their balls – blue and red – against her so she was triply frozen.

Jeff saw what Heather had done and laughed, grabbing the ball from Kelly. The Spartan couldn't move to take it back; the boy waved it in her face, grinning, and then turned and walked sedately away. He made sure to get within grabbing distance of the other Spartans as well, though it meant detouring through the "battlefield" on his way to the outer ring.

Finally, having had his fun, Jeff sketched an elaborate bow to the trio of Spartans and then knelt on one knee and offered the ball to his assigned sprinter with the air of an ancient Medieval knight offering his sword to his liegelord.

"Your ball, my lady," he said, grinning at June. June, smirking – everyone knew Jeff had a playful side that loved to play out historical clichés – pretended to curtsy, taking the ball gently.

"Thank you, brave one," she said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. She tapped him on the shoulders with the ball as though knighting him. "Rise, Sir Jeff."

Jeff stood and stepped out of the circle.

Heather laughed at their antics but motioned for June to run the ball back to the soldiers waiting at the walls. John, Linda, and Kelly were still frozen in the inner circle; Heather called the children back and they came willingly, carrying their balls with them. The trio of Spartans, thus "released," came out with them, stepping over the boundary of the circle.

"Well done," John said, his deep voice soft as he looked down at her.

"Thanks."

_~~HALO~~_

The girl turned and went back to the group. John turned to Kelly and Linda; his taller sister smirked at him knowingly. "Picked a favorite already?" she asked teasingly, her voice pitched not to carry.

"She'll make a good platoon leader," John answered. "I'm hoping she takes the military orphanage offer."

The solider in charge of the children came over, grinning. "Thanks for playing along," he said to all three.

"Our pleasure," Kelly replied. "What are you planning next?"

"They're exhausted. We'll probably take them to the rec-room, put on a movie, and let them vegetate for a while."

John nodded. "If you need us again, feel free to ask – we're in Garage D. This was entertaining."

"Kids are generally fun. Thanks, I might take you up on that. We've got to figure out how to keep them distracted for another week." He rubbed a hand through his hair and then grinned slightly, waving a farewell and walking back towards the kids.

John turned to Kelly and Linda, about to ask what they'd like to do next. His sisters grinned slightly still, as though they had forgotten that their lips were curved upwards. "We might as well rearrange the gym," Kelly said. "Then lunch?"

"Sounds good to me," Linda agreed. They split up and moved the pieces of equipment back to their original positions. The children left, and not quietly, several of them calling farewell to the Spartans, who were careful to turn, wave, and smile with a promise of seeing them again.

Once the gym was back in order, the trio headed for the cafeteria, where they ate quickly at their own table once more and then went back to their garage. They spent the rest of the ship's day working on their armor, ensuring each seal and joint was truly secure – the preliminary check-over could have missed things – and then buffing and shining the scraped pieces as well as they could.

Dinner time came and they headed for the cafeteria again. They found it filled with all of the children; almost no soldiers remained in the extremely loud room. When the three entered, they were greeted with shrieked "hellos" and invited to sit at a dozen tables. All three were slightly flabbergasted – they'd never been asked to sit with a group at any meal.

Kelly decided to sit with a group of teenage girls in the far back left of the cafeteria. They pelted her with questions about what it was like to be a solider in the UNSC; she did her best to be truthful without scaring them off of it. They were clearly willing to join up, and she tried to encourage that subtly.

Linda found herself a table with a mixed group, who were quite shy but still managed to ask her a few questions – mostly about the Covenant and UNSC, though there were a few about what it was like to be a Spartan.

John, meanwhile, sat down with a group of rowdy boys, one of whom practically dragged him over by the hand. The small six-year-old introduced himself as Tom, and was entirely sure he would someday be a Spartan just like the Chief. John suggested that he start with the military orphanage and learn all he could to prepare himself, then.

While they usually would have eaten and retreated within ten minutes, the Spartans found themselves lingering over their meals, answered the children's questions honestly and frankly. It scared some of them, but others responded eagerly, demanding more and more information. The soldiers in charge of the group seemed to appreciate the break and got their own dinner in relative peace.

"Will you teach us?" one of the young boys of John's group asked. His name was Andrew, but he insisted on being called Slug, despite his lean profile and intelligent eyes.

"Teach you what?" John asked as a teenager in the group gathered up everyone's empty trays, including the Spartan's own, and took them to the dirty dishes window.

"How to fight," Slug answered, his tone saying "duh!"

John shook his head slightly. "That's for your trainers to do when you're old enough."

"But we should know _some_ things now," Tom insisted.

"Yeah," Slug agreed. "What if other kids want to pick on us in the orphanage? Or what if more Covvies come?"

"If Covenant come where you are, I expect you to run," John answered, locking gazes with the boy. He glared back defiantly. "You aren't big enough to take on even a Grunt."

"Then could you teach us how to run? Build up our stamina? Or, like, where we could hide?" another boy, shy older Mikey, whispered.

John tilted his head, considering. It would certainly keep everyone busy – and it would be a useful skill. They had been slowed down on the planet because some of the fatter kids hadn't been able to keep up. And, despite his bratty behavior, Slug was right – there were kids in the orphanage who would try to bully new arrivals.

He leaned back slightly and caught Kelly's eyes. With a series of quick hand motions, they communicated silently as the boys at John's table and the girls at Kelly's watched. Linda caught the motion and joined in, arguing against it – their job was to keep themselves in shape, not show children how to run for kilometers without tiring – but Kelly and John convinced her. Everyone watched the silent argument with various expressions – mostly envy – and then John turned back to his table.

"We'll teach you how to run and hide," the Spartan told the boys.

"_And_ how to protect ourselves against other boys?" Tom demanded.

"We'll see."

_~~HALO~~_

Heather looked at Kelly, who seemed satisfied, and asked, "Will _you_ show us how to protect ourselves?"

"It's not that simple," the Spartan replied, her voice soft. "It's not a matter of will we or not – it's a matter of _can_ we. If it were up to me, I would in a heartbeat – you need to learn how to protect yourselves, because the orphanages can be… difficult places. Especially for young girls. And the military is no walk in the park. But John's the Chief, and I follow his orders. Plus, you all have schooling to do, and you're technically under another soldier who might not appreciate us stepping on his toes."

"And you're not babysitters," Heather agreed, sighing quietly. She'd wanted to get a head start on everyone else who chose military orphanage.

Kelly nodded. "And, to be honest, we really wouldn't know where to start in training you," she admitted, grinning slightly. "You might be better off asking one of the other soldiers."

"If they said you could teach us, then would you?" Heather asked, already thinking about how she should approach the nice man in charge of them.

Kelly nodded solemnly. "If nothing else, I could show you how to disable an attacker so you could get away."

"I'd like that," another girl, whom everyone called Thumbelina for her tiny size, murmured. "But don't you have to be big and strong to fight someone off?"

"Not if you know how to do it. With the right moves, you could take on someone my size." Everyone giggled, though few believed her – Heather found herself skeptical as well. Maybe Kelly's _size_, but certainly not if that person was trained in fighting.

"I'll go ask," Heather said, jumping up and trotting towards the soldiers who were sitting at their own table.

_~~HALO~~_

John, Kelly, and Linda returned to their quarters after talking to the children for a while longer. John cleaned his forehead and Kelly removed the stitches for him; the wound was nearly healed. Meanwhile, Linda turned her attention to her sniper rifle, cleaning it meticulously and checking that nothing had been banged up or scratched. She replaced the rifle's barrel and then set it aside.

Once Linda was finished with her sniper rifle, the trio settled into their cots and slept. They were all eager to get to their next destination, but the slow pace of a ship in Slipspace was calming – for now. Later, they knew, it would begin to chafe at them, and so they took what peace they could now.

_~~HALO~~_

Heather suspected that she and the rest of the refugees – the teachers had been given their own quarters, separate from the children, who were assigned to bunks according to gender – were awakened long after the rest of the ship woke, so she set her mental alarm to wake her earlier than everyone else.

She sat up silently. Thankfully, she had a bottom bunk near the door; Heather slipped into the clothing the soldiers had given her – fatigues in the smallest size and still too big so that she had to use a piece of elastic cord to keep the pants up and rolled up the sleeves – and then padded silently out of the room.

The way to the gym was easy to remember, and she wanted to work out a little. It always helped her think. And no one had forbidden her from going to the gym alone. Technically.

She found the gym after a couple of false turns – she had to find the cafeteria first – and went inside after figuring out how to palm the door open. She looked around.

There was a boxing ring to her right, surrounded by thick mats. To her left was a row of punching bags. In front of her were the weight machines, including free weights, that she wanted to try out.

Movement further into the room caught her attention, though, and she tried to look through the various pieces of equipment to figure out who else was in here. She didn't want to be caught and get into trouble.

However, she couldn't see who it was, only that he or she was working out in the center of the gym, where the gravity was highest. Heather figured they'd take her for a soldier – a really _small_ soldier – and crossed confidently to the mats around the boxing ring, figuring that she should stretch before choosing a machine to work on.

While she limbered up and warmed up her muscles still stiff from sleep, Heather considered her options. She shouldn't do the bench press without a spotter, but she could use the elliptical or stair machine or the half-dozen other weighted machines. She decided to start with her legs – after all, one needed strong legs to run far and fast – and, once she had warmed up with a few minutes of jogging in place, she crossed the gym to a complicated-looking machine that she knew would work out her legs and buttocks.

_Toning my ass_, Heather giggled to herself, setting the machine to its lowest weight and sitting down. She locked the bar over her ankles, sat back, and then raised her legs. The weight pulled against her; she couldn't manage more than five repetitions before her legs started shaking. She forced herself to do seven, though, and then took a break for thirty seconds.

She did three sets of seven, at the end of which her legs felt like jelly. Heather sat for a moment and then reassembled the machine so she could push inwards against resistance. She was even worse at that; she could only manage five of those before her thighs started trembling so badly that she wouldn't be able to stand.

_I'm really out of shape_, Heather thought to herself, scowling. She forced herself through another set of the presses, and then rearranged the machine so she had to force her legs open against resistance. She was a little better at that, but still, not good enough.

Frustrated with herself, Heather stood and shooting pains shot up her back and legs, making her cry out as she fell to the floor. Her knees shook and she couldn't get them to stop; her inner thighs and lower back _screamed_ in protest as she tried to roll over.

"Don't move." Heather looked up as someone crouched next to her. It was John – and behind him, Kelly.

"Hi," she said stupidly. "Where'd you come from?"

"We've been here the whole time," Kelly replied. She hunkered down next to John and gently lifted Heather by the shoulders; Heather gasped in pain as Kelly sat her up straight. "You've overdone it."

"But it was the lowest setting!" Heather protested, even though she knew Kelly was right.

"It's built for soldiers, not little girls," John replied, his voice slightly gruff.

Heather glared at him. "I'm not a little girl," she snapped. John merely shrugged; Kelly flapped a hand at him and he moved away, further into the gym.

"Now, where does it hurt?" Kelly asked Heather.

"Lower back and thighs," Heather muttered rebelliously.

"Let's make sure nothing's torn, alright?"

Heather nodded sharply and tried to stand, but hissed in pain as she tried to straighten her legs. They were cramping already. Kelly slipped an arm under her knees and behind her back, lifting her effortlessly. Heather crossed her arms so they didn't dangle and the woman walked out of the gym.

"Sorry for snapping at you," Heather said after a moment of silence.

Kelly chuckled. "John can be… Indelicate, sometimes. Especially when he's worried. Don't worry – he'll get over it. But he won't apologize. He's stubborn."

"He was worried?"

Kelly nodded. "We all were."

"Then why didn't you stop me?"

"We didn't know you were overdoing it until you stood up. We figured you would know not to force your body to do something it couldn't."

"But that's how you get stronger."

"That's how you break things," Kelly replied, shaking her head slightly. "You have to work up to it – slowly."

"How can I do that when nothing's built for "little girls"?"

"I'll show you."

"Did you have trouble working up to it?" Heather asked, feeling very much as though she was prying into a state secret. But Kelly merely smirked.

"Oh, yeah," the Spartan replied. "Some people still think that girls can't handle the military. And some girls can't – just like some boys can't. It's not shameful, not to be able to keep up, unless you do something to yourself to make it that way. Like overdoing it." Heather grinned sheepishly when Kelly looked at her expressively. "But I am faster than anyone, and that's my strength."

"I don't have a strength," Heather muttered.

"You're a leader," Kelly pointed out. "When we played the ball game yesterday, you led all the children – and beat us."

"Yeah, but… You could have won."

"We could have. If we'd wanted to win, you wouldn't have ever gotten the balls away from us. But we wanted you to win."

"Why?"

"Because you need some confidence, chica."

Heather frowned silently. She was confidant – wasn't she?

"You remind me a lot of John, when we were younger," Kelly chuckled, under her breath.

"You knew each other as kids?"

Kelly blinked, as though realizing she'd said something she shouldn't have, and then shrugged slightly. "As younglings," she answered. "When we were in training together. He's a leader, just like you. Maybe it's something about leaders, but you're both stubborn, too. And a little arrogant."

"John's not stubborn." He had helped her, after all, in the tag game.

Kelly grinned. "He's stubborn as a rock, and hard-headed as one, too. But it's cute that you worship him."

"I do not!" Heather protested. Her scumbag of a brain, though, decided that blushing was an appropriate response to the denial, and Kelly laughed. "He's just… He's a good role-model. So are you and Linda."

"No, we're not," Kelly disagreed, shaking her head – she sounded serious all of a sudden. "Chica, don't look up to us. Nothing good comes from our hands. Emulate any soldier – even the ODSTs – but don't try to be a Spartan."

"What, am I not good enough?" Heather demanded, pride stung.

Kelly, however, shook her head, and her eyes seemed sad. "On the contrary, my young friend. You're _too_ good."

They reached the medical bay then, and Heather was forced to hold her curiosity as Kelly handed her over to a bossy nurse. By the time Heather finished explaining what she'd done in the gym, the Spartan woman was gone.

The nurse declared that she had simply put too much strain on the muscles, gave her a muscle relaxant and a shot to speed up the healing process, and sent her back to her quarters to rest. A soldier escorted her there. No one else was in the room, and Heather realized she hadn't eaten and was hungry. But the solider simply closed – and locked – the door to the hall, and so Heather was stuck in the room. She lay on her bunk and tried to ignore her rumbling stomach.

She had only been lying down for fifteen minutes before the door opened again. She looked over and blinked – John was standing in the doorway, holding a tray of food. He came in quietly, leaving the door open.

Heather sat up and accepted the tray of food. "Thanks," she said, patting the bed next to her. "Sit down with me?"

Instead of sitting on the bed, though, the Spartan sat on the floor. That brought his head nearly level with hers, which made Heather grin.

"I'm sorry for calling you a little girl," John said quietly.

"I forgive you. I _am_ a little girl, compared to a solider," Heather sighed, breaking open the orange peel. "But you can make it up to me." She grinned, and John raised an eyebrow. Heather noticed a scar running across his eye and through his nose – and wondered what had caused _that_, and how he had survived. "Teach me how to use those machines and get stronger without hurting myself."

The skin around the Spartan's eyes crinkled slightly. Heather was beginning to notice that, of the trio, Kelly was the most expressive. She could read John a little, but he didn't really smile. It was the tiniest changes – like the skin around his eyes – that made up the big man's expressions. "Kelly said she promised to do so, since you're stubborn enough to keep doing it if she doesn't."

"Yeah, but _you're_ the one who called me a little girl, so you kinda owe me. Besides, Kelly said I remind her of you, when you were in training. I could learn a lot from you about how to lead people."

The big man nodded slightly. "We have received permission – orders, really – to begin training anyone who chooses military orphanage and is old enough. Is that your choice?" Heather nodded, biting into the orange. She never peeled apart the slices of the fruit, just bit into it like an apple. It seemed to bother John, but he said nothing. "It won't be easy," he warned her. "You'll probably hate me – and your other trainers – before we're done. If you don't, I won't be doing my job right."

"If you can handle it, John, then so can I," Heather assured him. "I'll remember you're pushing me to make me better, and I won't hate you – not really."

"Alright then, trainee – and while I'm training you, you'll address me as "sir" or "Chief" and my sisters as "sir" or "Petty Officer." Got that?"

"Yes, sir," Heather replied, grinning slightly. "What about my name? Don't you want to know it?"

John looked surprised, then tilted his head slightly to one side. "While in training, you'll be "trainee" or "worm" to most of your trainers. And everyone else will address you by last name."

"So why don't they address you that way?"

The big man frowned and Heather had the sense that she'd pushed too far. "To be honest, Heather, it's because very few people know who we are," he said quietly. Heather blinked – so he _did_ know her name, but how? "You can't tell us apart in armor, and it's extremely rare for people to see us outside it. We usually go into cryo over long Slipspace trips." He shrugged.

"But everyone knows you're the Chief," Heather protested. "The news shows all sorts of pictures of you…"

"And usually, it's not me." The Chief grinned slightly, again just a crinkling around his eyes. "If you look really closely, you'll see that most of the Spartans you see in videos aren't me. No one can tell us apart in our armor, generally speaking – especially not civilians."

"Then… Wait, how can _anyone_ tell you apart in your armor?"

"Trade secret."

"Hmph." Heather bit into her breakfast burrito – it was almost cold, since she'd ignored it while they had been talking – and chewed thoughtfully. She thought hard about when she'd seen the Spartans in their armor, back on her home planet. "It's the numbers, isn't it?" she asked, remembering the white-stenciled numbers on each Spartan's chest plate. "You're numbered."

John grinned again, nodding his head in approval. "Do you remember which is my number?"

"Um… It was either eight-something or eleven… No, one hundred and... I forget. You were moving too fast, and your armor was covered in blood anyway."

"One-one-seven," John answered.

"Does that mean there are over a hundred Spartans?"

"Our numbers are classified."

"Hmph."

"Get used to it, trainee – a lot in the military is classified, and unless you join ONI or become a top-level officer, you won't get to know it." Despite the harsh words, John seemed to telling her this gently.

"Why?"

"Because there are a lot of things most people shouldn't know."

"About you?"

"About the Spartans, about our enemy, about our soldiers, our planets… Secrets are no bad thing."

"They can be," Heather argued.

"Only if you let them be. Now, finish eating and then we'll start."

"Wait, now? I'm injured!"

"And someday you'll be injured on the battlefield, but you won't have the luxury of taking a break then." There was absolutely no sympathy in the Spartan's tone; Heather wolfed down the rest of the burrito and stood. To her surprise, her legs felt – well, sore, but not too bad.

John nodded the tiniest bit in approval, standing as well. But before Heather could respond to the nod, his demeanor changed completely, warningly, and she silently trotted out of the room, trying not to favor her left leg, which was definitely more sore than the other. The Chief jogged past her – she would have to find her own way to the gym, Heather realized as the man turned a corner and disappeared.

_But he'll train me_, Heather thought to herself. _He'll train me, and I'll have been trained by the Chief, and people will respect me for it. And maybe I'll get good enough that I can be a Spartan, too, someday. _Despite Kelly's warning, Heather knew she would always look up to the Spartans – who couldn't?

And so began Heather's first day of what most people affectionately remembered as Hell on Board. The Chief was true to his promise, and on the surface, Heather found herself hating the man – but deep down, she still admired him, and knew that he was molding her into the best soldier she could be. So she worked, harder than anyone else in the trainee group, and she spent hours with one of the Spartans until she earned the nickname "Spartan Puppy" for the way she was always following one of them around.

And when she was put in with the rest of the trainees who had chosen military orphanage on another planet to be trained in a group, she was better than everyone else because of the Chief's tutoring, and quickly became a team leader – and then a platoon commander. When she got her rank at eighteen, she was one of the shining stars of the Marines.

But she never saw the Chief again – at least, not in the same way. They were sometimes deployed on the same battlefield, but if they crossed paths, he never acknowledged that she was the same Heather Matheson that he'd helped train so many years ago. And if people wondered why Heather never signed on to be a Helljumper, they figured it was because she enjoyed her position as a regular Marine – but the truth was that, despite the rumors of how the Spartans were trained, she wanted to be a Spartan, with her own number and armor.

She heard rumors of the Spartan activities, and always watched the holofeeds, remembering her conversation about the numbers with the Chief. And slowly, she realized that there were only thirty or so unique numbers from the earliest recorded battles, and as the war progressed, that she no longer saw certain numbers. But the Spartans to which they were undoubtedly assigned never hit the KIA rolls, and no new numbers showed up to replace them.

And when she left the UNSC at the ripe age of thirty-six, after getting careless enough that a Needle had taken off half her leg, Heather watched the news feeds every night and found that only one number still existed – 117, the Demon himself. And then he, too, disappeared from the feeds, and she mourned him, because she knew no one else was alive who knew the man under the armor.


End file.
